Becoming the Legend
by Sir-Tristain
Summary: The Hero is seldom born into a time of tranquillity. If he is, Link is forgotten. It is only through toil, and struggling against Evil, that he becomes The Hero. When a young man called Link is beset by enemies, and tormented by a foe he barely understands, will he rise up and become part of Legend, or will he fall, and become part of a forgotten history...?
1. Prologue- Part 1

… _And lo, when the powers of Darknesse did smother the land, the Goddess despaired._

 **Prologue**

He floated in a peaceful white landscape, resting softly on what appeared to be a cloud in an infinite sky. It was where he'd come to dream for the past few months, a place of calm in the turmoil and struggle of his life. The loss of his grandfather had devastated him, and left him alone, his father having disappeared so many years ago.

The village had accommodated him, so far. His unusual skill set had not leant him well to farming. Instead, he'd become the premier hunter in the region, as well as the closest thing they had to a guard. His skill with the sword was still increasing, though much more slowly, since his tutor had passed on.

In the dream, his pains felt…distant. Muted. He wasn't sure how he'd come across the place. He knew only that it was not a dream in the standard sense, and that he had to will himself to travel there, in the moment between awake and slumbering. Regardless, it served its purpose. The aches and scrapes from his day's work and night's exercise were fading, his worries slowly drifting away into nothingness. He'd heard some odd rumours of late; the Royal guard charging across the countryside, though they were less consistent as to why. Some claimed they were chasing something, which had led to wild speculation. Some thought they hunted monsters, demons, or dragons. Others said bandits, or even an invading army. The wildest theory was that they were there as a show of force; the rebellion in the eastern province, and its subsequent cleansing, was a terrifying memory for some, though he had not been born at the time. He told people there was nothing to fear. Kohlin was too small a village to have anything of great worth; it would be passed over by whatever it was they were chasing. Life would go on. The village would stay the same. Nothing could change that.

With a deep sigh, he prepared to slip into normal sleep.

He appeared on a vast plain of lush, green grass, stretching almost as far as the eye could see. A small town sat astride a bridge over the river which meandered across the land, running from its source in the mountains which were barely visible on the horizon. It seemed so peaceful, so idyllic. He imagined children running and playing in the streets, whilst small shipping vessels sailed by. Women at the riverbank, washing clothes for their families, as the men fished for supper, a small peaceful isle of serenity in a chaotic world.

Something was odd about the place, though. He could feel it, like an itch between his shoulder blades, the prickling sensation of being watched. It was warm he suddenly noticed. Not the heat of a balmy spring day, with a soft, soothing breeze. This was the heat of the dead of summer, the sun searing down, and baking the earth. Great swathes of the grasslands slowly began to lose their bright green colour, fading to yellow, then brown. He watched as the river began to dry up, its source in the mountains expended, the water evaporating under the sun's merciless, unending assault. He imagined the children weeping, starving. With no energy to play, they sat down in the streets, awaiting their fates, as their parents, hollow eyed, slowly succumbed to the hunger. The ground shook, rending fissures open in the red earth, swallowing parts of the landscape whole. The sky turned black as fire fell from the heavens, red sparks streaking towards the ground, setting the dry grass alight where they struck. Lightning arced across the sky, coating the land in an otherworldly, unnatural glow. In some places, the previously lush turf had been replaces by tiny writhing tentacles, their skin the colour of midnight, with sickly orange and red blotches. Where several of these were gathered, they wound together, monstrous tendrils binding to each other, reaching upwards.

He looked up, and there, in the sky, was _IT._ Through a crack in the heavens themselves, he could see more tendrils reaching, searching, and desperately straining to join with those in the ground. It saw him, he realised in horror. The flailing appendages parted, and revealed the abomination's nightmarish eye. It screamed, and its voice was the herald of the end, the bell tolling for the ruin of all. Primal horror gripped him as that noise scoured his mind. The insidious fear seeped in, rushing to the very core of his soul as it stared back at him. Its emotions crashed into his skull in that moment; the seething hatred, the disdain for all that lived was thrust upon him, and, for an instant, he knew despair. He didn't even move as dozens of lance-like arms rushed towards him…

The world seemed to lurch as he almost slammed back into his white dream-scape.

His breath came in short, ragged bursts, as he tried to comprehend what had just happened. He wiped his arm across his forehead, and was unsurprised to find he was sweating, even in this place of serenity. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, seeming to burn inside of him, waiting to be unleashed. He couldn't understand what had just happened. The nightmare had seemed so real to him.

A voice brushed gently against him, seeming to come from everywhere, yet nowhere, but somehow speak directly into his mind:

 _Slumber no more. It is time._

 _Destiny is at hand._

 _Become what you must, become who you were born to be._

 _Now is the hour!_

 _Rise, hero!_

 _ **Awaken…Link!**_


	2. Prologue- Part 2

Link stirred on his bed, slowly coming to. His head felt fuzzy, as if he had slept too long. Odd sounds were coming from outside, as well as a strange smell. Understanding struck him at once; the sound was screaming and the smell was fire. People were yelling, in fear and confusion. They were under attack.

Instantly, the adrenaline was back. All the fear he had been feeling what seemed like moments before was gone, replaced by a burning desire to protect his home. He leapt from the bed, and hastily buckled his sword belt on over his shoulder. He noted his bow, still strung, leaning up against the wall next to his half-full quiver. He picked them both up and headed to the window. Pushing it open gently, he pulled himself up onto the roof.

The scene around him took his breath away. The village hall, the grandest, most secure building they had, was ablaze. The roaring flames were devouring the structure. Licking hungrily at the supporting walls, they reached high into the sky, a noxious, black smoke billowing out from them. The tiled roof strained under the weight as the outer walls of the building burnt away, leaving only the tougher oak supports. The tower had already tilted to a dangerous angle, its fabulous clock that had been there was gone, leaving just another hole for smoke to pour through. Several other buildings were on fire, and one of the village's food stores was already little more than a smouldering ruin; a whole year's harvest worth of food, lost. Its glowing embers, still glimmering balefully, were reflected in his blue eyes, stoking the furnace of his anger. The yelling and the screams, which had seemed so clear and distinct to him before, were lost beneath the roaring blazes, all blending together to become almost indistinguishable.

Gritting his teeth, he scanned around for any sign of what had started it all off. He saw bodies in the street, unmoving. His heart went out to them, and he felt sadness, as well as a touch of self-loathing, for knowing he would not go out to help them. He would never know if it was too late to help or even save them. He would never know whether they were unconscious, injured, or passed out from the smoke; if he had left them to die. Either they were in no immediate danger of further harm, or they could be harmed no further. Regardless, his meagre skills in medicine were less than some of the other villagers' and he could help much more effectively in other ways.

A young girl was huddling in a corner two streets over, arms protectively wrapped around two children. He thought he should recognise her, but couldn't tell. Though it shamed him to admit it, he no longer spent enough time with the villagers to know them all. They seemed safe enough, though, so he resumed his search. He noted, briefly, a group of people headed towards the church, which so far seemed a relative haven. He thought he saw several men keeping a watchful eye and patrolling along the path to the doors. He'd pass word down to the young woman later, if he could. She should have headed there already; the church wasn't too distant, and being the only stone building, was safer from fire than most.

He discovered her reason for hiding, and finally found what he'd been searching for at the same time; two humanoid creatures had just vacated a nearby building. He could just make out an orange glow through one of the lower floor windows. It seemed destruction was higher on their priorities than looting. He shook his head to clear it of idle thoughts. It was a time for action, speculation could come later. A cursory glance at the creatures showed him all he needed to know. The first was bearing a blazing torch, the other carrying a crude bludgeon and, more importantly, for him, neither seemed to be carrying bows. He drew his own, and as he knocked his first arrow, a sense of stillness came over him. It was not a true calm, per se, just a feeling of detachment. He could barely hear the sounds coming from all around him, nor feel the night's chill against his bare arms. In one swift movement, he drew the string back, felt the fletching against his cheek, and lined up the first creature. He could see it more clearly now. Dressed in little more than tattered rags, its dark purple skin was open to the world. The only part of its body that was well covered was its head, shrouded in a veil covering its mouth, and a thick leather cap over its scalp. Neither would save it from his arrows. He paused in between his breaths, and then released the bowstring. He didn't pause to watch his arrow fly; he needed to hit them hard and fast. Even if he missed, he wanted the element of surprise to not allow them any reaction time before his second shot struck. He was taking aim at the second when his deadly missile struck home, embedding itself deep into the creature's chest. He fired the arrow, hoping the creature would not react in time to throw off his shot. It did. The monster ducked towards the ground in a primitive, instinctual reaction of any predator being hunted. Link's luck was with him, however, and the arrow dipped low, slicing through the beast's throat. He could almost thank the Goddess as his target slumped to the floor, its lifeblood rapidly flowing from the body, leaving a corpse behind. Even at a short distance, he normally would not have made that shot, even if he tried. He needed to be more careful, though. Relying on his luck might cause trouble further down the line, trouble he could ill afford.

The girl was running towards the church, the two children in tow. They would be safe from harm- for the time being. _As safe as anyone can be, tonight._ He thought bitterly.

He skirted around the other side of the roof, trying to stay low, though he did not think he had caused enough trouble to attract much in the way of attention…yet. He caught sight of a small group clustered together nearby, next to what he thought was the baker's cottage. He could make out a man holding a large cane, possibly either a walking stick, or a broken off brush or rake. He stood resolutely in front of his wife, squaring off against two aggressors, with a third a short distance away. A crumpled heap lay still on the floor, presumably due to a swift blow to the head from the man's staff. The third creature pulled a sling and pebble out of a pouch at its waist, and began to spin it rapidly whilst the man did his best to fend off the others. Link hesitated a moment. Taking down any one of them would cause enough distraction to allow the man to fell another, but the last would have a clear strike. He couldn't afford to take too long deliberating, so did the first thing that came to mind and felt right. He hated to waste a precious arrow that way when he already had tragically few, but it was probably the best shot he had to save everyone. He launched his arrow deliberately between the creatures and the man. It thudded in to the hard, dry dirt of the street. The distraction worked almost perfectly; concentration broken, the sling-bearer's stone flew wide, harmlessly darting down between two nearby houses. The two other creatures spun at the sudden attack, hurriedly trying to find its origin. They had just begun to look in his direction when another of his arrows took one in its stomach, and a broad sweep and two swift strikes from the man dealt with the others. Panting with the exertion, physically, and probably mentally exhausted, the man looked up towards Link's perch. Whether the man could see him or not, he raised the tip of the cane to salute Link, and then took off into the dark with his wife.

He was starting to feel uncomfortably warm, though none of his neighbouring buildings seemed to be on fire, and the smoke was starting to affect his eyes. He was forced to blink more often than he would like, lest he see the world through a watery haze. He hoped there weren't many more monsters left, though from the damage he'd seen so far, he was beginning to doubt it. He was also beginning to wonder what their intentions could be. It seemed far too organised an attack for a simple raid, as if there were specific instructions being adhered to. Link's eyes drifted over towards the village green, where he saw a disconcerting sight. He couldn't be sure, but it looked like a group of mounted men. He blinked furiously, and rubbed the wetness out of his eyes, in case his vision was just impaired. He saw the same, one of the men seemed to even be handing out orders, and conversing with a very large creature, which stood almost as tall as the mounted man. _What on earth are men even doing with these monsters, let alone commanding them?_ He wondered. Small groups filtered into and out of nearby streets, generally in twos and threes, passing on messages, which got relayed to the man who seemed to be leader. The numbers alarmed him. There had to be scores of the creatures. He was beginning to doubt his ability to deal with them all. Eyeing his quiver, he counted fewer than a dozen. _I should go to the church, protect those that I can there._

He stood up, intending to act out his plan.

A horrified scream came from the wide street leading towards the village green.

A woman stood, transfixed, staring at the wanton destruction, and the monsters that had come in the night. The man atop his horse gestured briefly, the creatures moved to grab her. _RUN!_ He screamed out in his mind, willing her to flee. She stood there for several painful moments, before turning away and sprinting down the street, in a straight line away from the green. He notched an arrow praying she'd dive down a side alley and allow him to fire upon her pursuers unobserved. She did not. Mad with panic, she continued on in a straight line.

He had no choice. He could not let an innocent die just to avoid detection and keep himself out of danger. The leading creatures would reach her in seconds. The first one fell, his arrow jutting out of its side. A waft of smoke caught in his throat, and his coughing convulsion sent the second arrow awry in his haste. He cursed inwardly, drawing another. The heat was almost unbearable.

The woman stumbled and hit the ground hard. They were on her within seconds, swinging wildly as she kicked out and struck back in any way she could. He unleashed arrow after arrow. He had never fired faster. It must have been longer, but it felt like seconds, and all was still. Some of the monsters had more than one arrow stuck in them, but none moved. Neither did the woman.

He felt drained dry, his heart pounding, breath coming ragged. He felt, more than saw, the mounted man's eyes upon him. He made himself stand tall, defiant. He didn't know if the man could make him out clearly, but he made himself point directly at him. _You're going down._ And he wanted the man to know it.

A coughing fit struck him again, and he grasped at the thatching on his roof as he stumbled. He heard wooden beams creaking. Then he saw smoke coming from directly beneath him. Flames began to lick at the roof. They had found him, quite some time ago, it seemed. He saw them on a nearby roof as something smashed near him on the roof. He saw the glass shards, and realised it was a bottle. Another struck nearer to him, covering him in a pungent liquid. He froze in fear, as a torch lazily arced through the air. The roof burst into flames instantly. He dove for the far side, but the fires still raced up and caught his arm and face.

He felt pain. The pain was a searing agony, burning down his skin. The roof, already weakened, collapsed under him from his impact, and he landed heavily on the floor below him. The room was ablaze, and filled with smoke. The heat was oppressive. Each and every breath was more painful, and harder to draw. His burnt skin, cracked, and bleeding in places, stung as he struggled to his knees. He saw the window, and dove for it, passing heedlessly through fires on the way. Being caught would be far worse. He streaked through the night's air, which, after the smoke-filled room, was so sweet for his lungs. He landed hard and felt something snapping. He hoped it wasn't him. His world was darkness and pain. Eyes blurring, he crawled almost blindly into the narrow alley the girl had hidden in earlier, and laid on his back for a few precious moments, dazed.

His head began to clear and he shoved everything aside, coming hesitantly to his feet, checking himself for anything broken. His bow fell to the floor in two parts, only the string connecting them. Sadness washed over him, as if he had just witnessed the opening act to the end of his old life. Tentatively drawing his blade, he unbuckled the leather belt slung across his chest and let the sword's sheathe fall to the ground. He slowly stretched, testing his body. He hurt so much. He felt like the fire still burnt on his skin and face, even though it had gone out in brief moments. He had not been fully dressed at the start, but now his vest was a tattered ruin, and he was covered with scrapes and abrasions from the fall. He felt ragged. His grip on the sword hilt tightened.

He was burnt, battered, bruised, and bleeding.

But not beaten yet.


	3. Prologue- Part 3

The horse frisked under him, restless. It sensed his eagerness for battle and conflict. It should know better; they'd been together for quite some time, and he never fought from horseback. He remembered why, but it was so many years ago that it felt like another lifetime. He was excited, though. He had made several raids like these over the previous weeks, uneventful slaughters. This time was different. Something interesting had finally happened. True, an archer on a rooftop was hardly a threat to him, but it would break the tedium at least. He would achieve his goals here regardless.

"Brox, did you see that?" He addressed his companion without looking at him.

"Hunter on roof." The behemoth replied in his usual clipped, minimalist manner.

"Yes, him. Send some of the forces out in that direction. I want small groups to try and subdue him, and larger ones force him to come this way."

"Why?"

"Because if he's a hunter, he'll die. However, if he's a hero...then he'll die. I would get to have some fun first, though, which is the important thing." A cruel and wicked grin split his face as he stared at the blaze of the roof the archer had stood upon. _Yes...fire, death and destruction. That was the key to finding_ _them._

He threw back his head and laughed.

.

-*-*Break*-*-

.

Link struggled away from the scene of his latest skirmish, leaving another enemy behind, bleeding dark blood from a deep wound to its side. He had gotten a better look at them now, since he had been forced to fight them up close. They were mostly a little over five feet tall; though their stooping posture belied the fact and made them seem shorter as they shuffled about. They had gangly arms, slightly too long for their bodies, which almost reached to the ground.

He'd underestimated the first few. They may have looked feeble and ill-formed for combat, but, as he had quickly learned, they were anything but. They may not have been classically trained in any martial arts or weapon styles, but from the scars they bore on their bodies, which they bore openly as marks of pride, brawls were an everyday part of their life. They used their size against him, leaving him exposed from overreaching, or ducking under any swings aimed too high. They attacked in small groups, trying to swarm him whenever they had the numbers.

He had earned several injuries in his first few engagements with them, injuries which he could ill afford. His sword was already beginning to feel heavy in his arms. With no shield, he had been forced to strike with both hands. Now, he needed both hands to strike at all, if he wanted any real force behind his swings. The cuts on his side and back stung fiercely, and only luck had saved him from worse. His arm and face were throbbing, the pain of his burns not yet subsided. His skin, cracked and dry, was beginning to peel in some places. He feared the aches and pains might eventually overwhelm him. It seemed almost a miracle to him that they had not succeeded already. Only a sense of duty, mixed with the last vestiges of adrenaline remaining within him, kept him on his feet. He knew he wasn't an expert swordsman, just a talented amateur, one with by far too little training. He had found himself capable of fighting off one with relative ease. Two at a time had proven almost an even match for him. On the occasions that he had discovered more, he had required a significant advantage to turn the tides.

So, he had become a predator in the night.

Tracking and hunting them, he leapt out of the shadows to strike, before retreating and leading them, confused and enraged, into an ambush. His knowledge and experience in the forests had loaned itself easily to the task. It had worked much better than full-on assaults, for a time. However, they were wily creatures, and the survivors had spread the word. Now, they hunted him.

He had thought about retreating to the church, to see if there was any sort of resistance forming up there, and possibly to have his wounds tended. The temptation was overwhelming. He had done enough, he told himself. He had bloodied them, and made them fear him. He had saved more than half a dozen people, and avenged countless more. He was not a Hero, no matter what the dream voice said. _But you could be…_ it seemed to whisper back.

He gritted his teeth. He could not go there yet, not whilst he was being pursued by the creatures. He could not risk an attack on the church so long as people were taking shelter there. _I need to finish what I started, or at least hide elsewhere. If I can find anywhere else, that is._ He looked up, trying to gauge how long he had been fighting. There seemed to be less smoke clogging the skylines, now; it appeared many of the fires around the village had now burnt out. That indicated it had probably been hours since he started his struggle. He thought the sky was getting brighter to the east, but it could just be another fire. He couldn't see the stars, either.

Maybe they would finish whatever it was they were doing, and just leave…but no. He did not want that to happen. He wanted to defeat them, and protect everyone. It was a foolish wish, he thought, but he could not seem to remove it from his mind. He felt drawn to the green. He needed to get there so that…something…could happen. He did not understand why he felt that.

He heard something moving around the corner. They had found his trail again. He had barely had enough opportunity to get his breath back this time, let alone prepare any traps or surprises for them. He shuffled silently to the mouth of the alley, hands gripping the hilt of his sword, waiting to strike. It took a conscious effort to reign in his breathing and keep it as quiet as possible, lest he be discovered. Unbidden, his heart raced regardless. He could still hear its beat pounding in his ears. Every sound seemed painfully loud to him in the stillness; the faint rustling of what remained of his clothes, the shuffling as he adjusted his feet into a better position to launch his attack. Distantly, the sounds of a ruined building collapsing reached him, another innocent victim in this night of tragedy. The sounds were closer, more insistent. They should be seconds away from him now.

He felt a bead of sweat drip down from his brow and tumble off his cheek. His muscles bunched in anticipation, coiled like a viper, waiting to strike.

 _Now._ He spun out of the alley, sword held close. In one fluid motion, he whirled, and his sword whipped out. The blade swung through the air. Its height, angle, and positioning were perfect to take the head from his enemy's neck. But the street was empty. The sword arced harmlessly through the air as the street stood, devoid of life, in front of him. Tension released, his breath burst forth in ragged gasps, his chest heaving. The sweat ran freely now, he could not seem to stop it. The night was beginning to take its toll on his mind now, too, if he was beginning to imagine things. He had been so certain that he had heard movement somewhere nearby. Slightly unsteady on his feet, he prepared to move on.

A sudden sense of anxiety rushed over him. The hairs on the back of his neck seemed to stand up all at once, as if there were an itch between his shoulder blades, an unseen watcher cursing him. He felt the ominous aura crushing in close, almost palpable, as the air of danger swirled around him. Failing to control his growing panic, and realising how exposed he was in the relatively wide street, he rushed to the nearest shelter. Fatigue momentarily overwhelmed him, and he stumbled. The fall saved his life.

Two crude, stone-headed arrows flew past his head. He froze for an instant, and then sprang into action. A stone, launched from a sling, passed between his legs as he ran for the cover of the next alley. They were using his own tactics against him, now. _Either they're even smarter than I thought, or their leader, whoever he is, has much more control over them than I'd given him credit for._

He sprinted away from the ambush as fast as his exhausted body could carry him, relying on their rushed aim and his luck to avoid most of their missiles. He dove into the space between two houses, drawing in huge gasps of air. He swore, as moments later, burning arrows struck the roof and walls of one of the houses, followed shortly by more of the bottles of flammable liquid they had used against him earlier. The dry hay in the roof's thatching caught fire almost instantly. He dashed out of the gap and across the next street and turned to find himself facing three of the creatures. They did not seem to be part of the ambush, judging by their startled expressions, and lack of preparations. There were hints of fear in their eyes, too, which he had not expected to find. It gave him some measure of hope. If they feared him, he could use it. He had no-where left to run, so took the only choice he had left.

He charged.

He let out a primal scream as he rushed forwards. They hesitated before his frenzied charge, though he did not know why. He did not care why. He swung his sword horizontally in front of him. The leading member of the group barely raised its weapon in time to stop his stroke and his furious blow easily forced its parry aside. His sword met the flesh of his enemy's arm and hit bone before coming to a stop. It dropped its weapon from useless fingers; tendons sliced; it lacked the dexterity to grip. It was unable to defend against Link's reversed strike. The blade sliced into its abdomen, cutting into the flesh and tearing muscle in a long gash up to its shoulder. It toppled backwards, oozing dark blood from both wounds. He had no time to relax, however, as the other two stepped forwards to attack simultaneously from opposite directions. Reacting as quickly as his fatigued muscles were able, he brought the pommel of his sword down into the temple of the attacker to his left. Even as sluggishly as he felt he was moving, it hit home with a satisfying crunch and came away bloody. The creature fell to the floor, dazed and hopefully incapacitated. He tried to avoid the inevitable counter-attack he knew would come from the opposite side, but only had time to turn half way around before its cudgel smashed into his side.

The pain was almost blinding. Waves of agony shot through his body as he felt, as much as heard, a sickening snapping noise from his side. He fell to one knee, brain cloudy as he fought to stay lucid. He swung out wildly with his blade, his training having abandoned him, and survival instincts kicking in. He hoped- prayed- to hit the creature. He heard its screech of pain as it tumbled to the floor next to him, maimed, hamstrings severed. He hacked viciously at the back of its neck. This fight was about survival, mercy was the last thing on his mind. It fell still, its death throes silenced. He rose haltingly to his feet and shuffled over to the second, still bleeding from its head wound. It was beginning to regain consciousness, its eyes unfocused. He fell onto his blade as he stabbed downwards, his latest injury impeding him more than any before. His sword pierced the monster's heart. It struggled futilely, not yet aware its fate was sealed. He twisted the blade, and pulled it out of the corpse.

The strange scent of their blood began to permeate the air. It had the stench of old meat, mixed with fungus and mould, like rotting vegetation. It was as if they weren't alive at all, but dead on the inside, husks of what they once were, taken, and twisted. The corruption, still too recent to spread outside their skin, boiled on the inside, festering, waiting to claim them- if they lived long enough. The odour had sickened him at first, but this was a night of horrors and he had experienced many. The smell barely bothered him now, though it troubled him to admit it.

He stood up fully, and felt the sharp stabs of pain fully for the first time. Each breath he drew was a fresh assault on his battered body. A lance of fire in his side as his lungs struggled to provide the oxygen he so desperately needed. He could not see blood, but knew at least one rib had cracked. Even moving was painful. The waves of stabbing, blinding agony threatened to end him, and it took nearly all he had to force them down. Each wound seemed to beat with its own rhythm, and any single one could destroy him.

It was time for him to leave. He had done all he could. He would find somewhere to hide, and, if the Goddess favoured him, live.

The realisation brushed away the last remnants of his resolve, and he looked around the area, victorious in the skirmish, but beaten in the battle.

It _was_ dawn. He could see no fires, but it seemed every other structure was burnt out. Occasional timber beams still stood upright, but they were few and far between. Smoke poured out of smouldering wreckages, the embers dying out with his hopes, and his courage. Kohlin was ruined, and he no longer had the strength to avenge it.

He was brought rudely out of his stupor when he noticed a line of the monsters he had fought all night, seemingly blocking off the street in front of him, but not attacking.

The realisation was slow, and it came with despair. He turned, knowing what he would see.

The ruined tatters of the village green met him. The grass was torn up by hundreds of feet walking over it, feet of men, and monsters, and horses. He saw dozens of bodies arranged in neat lines. All of them were human. All of them were dead. Amidst the centre of it all, was the man, still sat on his horse. The rider smiled down, seeing Link up close for the first time.

He was burnt, battered, bleeding and broken.

And he knew was beaten.


	4. Prologue- Part 4

He briefly scanned around for a means of escape and found none. There were simply too many of the creatures. Blocking off streets, patrolling; there seemed to be a constant flow of them in and out of the green. Just under half of the buildings around the village green remained standing. A scant few had burnt, but not collapsed. The damage was worse in some areas. The region he had been defending appeared to be the least affected, but still ruins were dotted around from place to place. He forced his eyes away from a certain spot on the green. He was not prepared to deal with that yet.

His nemesis sat atop his horse, perhaps thirty yards away, a sardonic grin on his face. He dismounted lazily and beckoned over the large humanoid Link had seen earlier. They spoke briefly in quiet whispers. The thing chuckled, and yelled a quick order to two of the smaller creatures, who rushed off to do its bidding. They both walked slowly towards him. The man was still smiling, and there was a certain arrogance, a swagger, to the way he moved. He stopped mere feet away.

He was a much the same height as Link, and of similar build. Broad across the shoulders, he appeared to be delicately muscled; his body had the compact tone of an athlete and the same lithe grace. He wore loose-fitting clothes. His tunic was baggy on his frame, as were his trousers. A cloak hung back over his shoulders, reaching to his mid-thigh. He did not appear to be wearing any armour, though the air of confidence he projected implied he had no need of any. Link looked at the man's face for the first time, to cement into his mind the face of evil. He had a strong chin, and his pointed Hylian ears were pierced with purple and orange rings. His hair was much the same length and cut as Link's, coming down to his collar, and parting around his eyes, but was much darker. High cheekbones and a straight nose, as well as powerful eyebrows surrounded the most compelling eyes he'd ever seen; blue and piercing, they seemed to stare straight through him, and into him at the same time. The impression he gave off was that of a predator, hunting its prey, and passing judgement. He wore a short bladed sword hung on his waist, but did not appear to be otherwise armed. Perhaps he didn't need to be.

He began to slowly clap. The sound echoed strangely in the still night, bouncing off the empty shells of ruined buildings. It seemed to Link that, in that moment, he could hear nothing else; no blazes roaring in the distance, no sounds of struggle as the monsters fought with any sort of resistance. He couldn't even hear the dawn chorus of the local wildlife, just the slow clapping of the man in front of him. The echoes slowly faded as he clasped his hands together. Finally, he spoke.

"I must say, I'm a huge fan of your work." His voice had a strange edge to it, but his relaxed manner as he spoke seemed to almost imply boredom. "They fear you, you know? My minions wanted to leave. They told me the job was done. They didn't want to be caught by _The Spirit of Kohlin_. They think you're a ghost, come to steal them away from the night." He paused briefly, lost in thought for a moment. "I've never known them to be superstitious. I'm learning a lot today. You'll help me learn the thing I came here for, won't you?"

Link waited through the man's monologue, hoping to see if his enemy would truly let his guard down, or to find an opportunity for escape. Neither had appeared so far. If the man ever turned away briefly, he would occasionally turn his head to cast a sideways glance at him. The man knew Link was trapped. He knew he would try and escape. He wanted him to know that would not happen.

His smile broadened and he spread his hands, pointing them slightly towards Link.

"But, I can see why they think you're a ghost; you look terrible! I'm surprised you're even on your feet still." His smile slipped a little and then came back somehow darker. "Do they burn still? Can you feel the fires caressing your skin, playfully licking at you with tongues of searing pain, sharing their heat, savouring your agony? Those cuts must sting, all the more from that grime and soot. Don't get excited now, if you breathe too hard, those ribs of yours could make an awful mess out of your lungs!" He let out an insane cackle, his movements becoming manic, like he was letting out tightly restrained emotions. As he continued, his voice seemed to shift in pitch, becoming slightly higher. "I'm really not happy with what you did to those poor imps just then. It wasn't very polite. It makes me. So. Very. Cross. Maybe soon you'll feel my blade twisting through you. Will you scream? Oh, I hope so. Your screams will sing to me, a beautiful symphony of agony. Yes." He seemed to catch himself mid-thought, and regained some of his composure. "No, no. Judging by that scowl, you'll hold it in as long as possible. Oh, I just love that look of defiance. I was like you once, so full of hope, and joy. Cursed with the naïve belief that the entire world was full of good, I fought for righteous causes. Then I was taken, and I saw the truth. I can't wait to break you. I wonder what you'll see…"

Link shivered and took a step back in spite of himself. The man was not a conquering warlord like he had expected. He was something entirely more unnerving. The man was unhinged, and possibly the most dangerous person he would ever meet. _Definitely the most dangerous man I'll ever meet, if I don't get out of here._ He thought, somewhat sadly. The man seemed to stumble, then caught himself and raised a hand to his face. He stood there a moment, then straightened up, and ran his fingers through his hair. The gesture seemed somehow familiar to Link. He continued to speak, his voice somewhat calmer and more level now.

"It's glorious, isn't it?" He raised his hands, seeming to point to their immediate surroundings with his palms. "It reminds me of you, you know. This, and every other village that's been in my path. It had a soul. It was filled with life and hope. And now, it is dying. It burns, broken. A ruined shell, battered, worn, and empty on the inside. My forces have come upon it, torn down its innocent ideals, its illusion of safety, and they've crushed its soul. We pushed it right to the brink, so it could stare into the abyss, and see its end coming. It fell apart. The spirit of Kohlin? Don't make me laugh." His voice became louder, more assertive, with his vehemence. "Not one of them had any real spirit left to crush. Most didn't even fight. Some begged for surrender. Cowards all. You'll find them over there." He pointed to the space Link had avoided looking at too closely. The rows of bodies there made him quiver with rage. The image of them seemed to burn into his very soul. Men, women and worst of all, children, had been arranged neatly there. Their wounds were single thrusts or slashes. They had not died fighting; they had all been executed. He glared angrily at the man, tightening his grip on his sword, and shifting to an aggressive stance. The man smiled back.

"Heh, that put some fire back in you, didn't it? The spirit might actually be present in you, but it's not enough. Will to fight alone will never beat me. I could almost cheer for you. Against ludicrous odds, you fought on, but all for naught. Your actions have made no difference. You've killed a handful of my minions, perhaps a few dozen. I have hundreds. You've saved a few of your precious villagers. I've KILLED hundreds. You've caused me mild irritation at best, and saved some insignificant yokels. All it cost you is your life."

Link looked into those eyes, and saw that his enemy truly believed what he had said. He felt his resolve waver. And yet…the man seemed to expect something. He knew if he surrendered, he would die like the others; a nameless corpse in a row. If he died, his actions would mean nothing. He could not let this man get away with it. He would not let this man get away with it. He would avenge his friends, and his village, but first, he had to survive.

The voice from his dream returned to him unbidden.

 _Now is the hour…Rise, Hero!_

He would fight, even if it cost him his life. He would fight, because it was the right thing to do.

He levelled his sword, and pointed the tip at his enemy. The man stared back, a look of mild surprise on his face for the first time.

"Very well then, Little Hero. I'll play."

The man seemed to leap the whole distance between them in one stride, and attacked at blinding speed. Link had not even seen him draw his weapon before he was forced on the defensive. He parried a vertical swing, blocked a strike from his right, and weaved back from a slice that threatened to take his head. He felt the rush of wind over the blade as it passed by his face. Every movement and twist sent a new pulse of agony up from his side, but he knew he had to bide his time. He might not get a second chance if he failed. A vicious overhead swing from his foe almost brought him to his knees, and his wild retaliation found only air as his enemy leapt back to gain some distance. Link was taken aback for a moment, when he saw his opponent's sword still in place in its sheath on his waist. In his hand he held a long, single edged blade, with a slight curve. He held it out to the side for a moment, and then it seemed to disappear.

Link panted heavily. The exchange, though it felt much longer, had lasted mere moments, and it had taken all of his scant training and skill to defend against the assault. He had not been able to launch a single attack of any value. His enemy was calm and composed and seemed to be thinking things over in his mind.

He rushed forwards again, and Link didn't even see the sword this time. He raised his own blade in the place he knew he would have to guard, and felt something hit his block. The sound of steel clashing rang out in the air, but he never saw his enemy's sword. Three more blows came at lightning speed, each pushing his reactions to the limit, each getting closer to tasting his flesh. He moved faster than he ever had before. His sword flicked aside an unseen thrust and crashed against a wide sweep. Somehow, he knew where the next strike would land. He knew the time had come. He had accepted he would die tonight. He attacked.

His sword swung down with all his emotions driving it: Fury, despair, pain, regret and grief. The world seemed to slow to a crawl as his sword descended, with grim inevitability, toward his opponent's chest. The man raised a hand in a futile attempt to stop the attack.

He caught the blade bare-handed.

Link had only a moment to stare in dismay, before he felt a lancing pain in his thigh as his foe's sword pierced him. He looked into his enemy's eyes, dumbfounded, and saw sadness there. _What? How…_

The sword disappeared and his leg collapsed underneath him. His blood felt warm as it ran out of the wound.

"I'm terribly sorry about that. For what it's worth, I enjoyed our game while it lasted. Do try not to die, Little Hero."

The large humanoid spoke for the first time. It had dark skin the colour of baked earth, and its face was more like a bear's than anything else.

"You done playing? Prisoner here." It seemed to have difficulty speaking around its muzzle, and the large teeth that took up much of its jaw.

"Ah, our guest of honour has finally arrived. It would be very ungracious of me to not greet him, now, wouldn't it?" The man said, as two of the small creatures dragged a man forwards from behind him, and pulled a black sack off his head. Link stared at the bloodied, battered and bruised face of the village elder. He slowly opened his eyes, which appeared unfocused and dazed. As he came to his senses, they settled on link, and let out a gasp.

"Link? No you must flee!"

The man whirled and stared at the elder, stunned.

"Wait, what did you say? His name is _LINK?!"_

For the first time, his guard was truly down. Pushing off with his one good leg, Link leapt forwards and into the air, yelling out in pain, swinging his sword down overhead.

Then man spun as his sword screamed down.

The Large humanoid caught his wrist in an iron grip as he landed, and the sword stopped inches away from the man's head. The man sighed and then leaned forwards to speak to him, almost in a whisper

"Don't do that again, Son. I'd hate to have to kill you, given our history."

Link's mind reeled as his sword fell from numb fingers, the strange familiarity and recognition starting to make sense. _It can't be. It isn't possible_. _It can't be him._ The creature shoved him bodily to the floor. He could no longer feel his leg. He caught sight of the pool of blood he had left already, and felt a chill run down his spine. If he didn't get tended to soon, he could easily bleed to death out here on the green.

"Brox, old friend, you should know by now something like that wouldn't have even phased me. Next time let them hit. I do love to see their faces after something like that."

"To take risks is crazy." The creature, Brox, replied.

"Yes, it is. That's why I enjoy it so much." He whirled to face the elder. "Now then, I gather you two know each other, so we can skip all the tedious introductions, yes? I'm very bored of being here, and I've a reputation of being somewhat erratic, so let's just hurry up and get to the point before I decide to torture the poor boy in front of you. I might do that, anyway, if it takes you too long. When we last spoke, I asked you a question. I want my answer. Where is it?"

The elder looked at Link and sighed sadly.

"It's in the swamp, off to the west. A week's travel, at best." He said in a shaky, weak voice. "Whatever you're intending to do though, it won't work, you have no idea what you're getting into, going there."

If he had anything more to say, they would never know. The man waved a dismissive hand towards the elder, who toppled backwards as his head parted from his body.

"Thank you, old boy. You've been most helpful."

Link could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He felt like he should be seeing red, but he could not separate the fury and fear within him. They had killed a defenceless old man who had helped them. It was unforgivable. He was next. It was inevitable.

"Want this one killed too?" Brox said, kicking him not too gently in his already injured side.

"Why on earth would I want that?

"Knows where we go next, could follow."

"Yes, but I want him to do that. I would have let the old man live otherwise. There's nothing like a bit of good old fashioned revenge and hatred to keep someone going. If he doesn't have a reason to keep going, he could just lie down and die here. That would be no good."

"He could come kill you one day. Come kill now, he stay dead."

"If I kill him now, no-one will oppose me in the future. Where's the fun in that? If by some miracle he does manage to kill me, who's to say it won't further my plans anyway? It could be that my death is all that's needed to complete my objective in some obscure way. The best part is, even knowing all of this, he'll still follow. It's what idiot heroes do. Trust me, old friend, I used to be one."

"You're insane." Brox replied, almost seeming to laugh.

"Oh, quite completely, I'm afraid." He grinned wickedly back, then inhaled deeply "Gather everyone up, we're done here. I have one last little bit of business with our friend here, and then we can leave. We got what we came for."

A deep, rattling horn sounded somewhere nearby. As he stepped over to where Link was lying, and, almost tenderly, rolled him onto his back to look into his eyes.

"You will follow, won't you?" His vision was getting blurry. It was hard to concentrate, too. He stared into those eyes, and saw the features which now seemed so familiar to him, like they had met before a long time ago. He did not want to believe it. The man walked away as Link's eyes slid shut. He heard the sound of a large group leaving. There was no cheering amongst them. They had suffered losses tonight, probably greater than in any other place they had attacked so far. Link felt coldness seep into his body, as his strength left him.

 _Father…is that really you?_


	5. Chapter 1

_She was loving and caring by both nature and power, to fight was anathema unto her._

 **Part 1: Becoming the Hero**

 **Chapter 1: A sleepless lid on the dreamer's eye**

He was aware of soft warmth bathing him and a small, delicate hand tenderly stroking his hair.

He cracked open his eyes, and the sunlight blinded him temporarily.

"You've met with a terrible fate, haven't you?" The voice was gentle and caring. He could almost make its owner's face before he passed out again. 

* * *

He floated in an empty darkness.

If only he had been stronger. He could have saved everyone.

He felt cold, but he did not shiver. He felt the place had a form rhythm to it. He let himself drift in the sea of nothingness. Dozens, possibly hundreds were dead. He had been powerless to stop it. It seemed to him that he could sense them slowly drifting past him, souls heading to the underworld. They looked to him, and saw his pain. They no longer felt pain, and they never would again; that was their final blessing. He looked into their eyes, though, and saw regret. He saw unfulfilled potential, untaken chances; great loves that would never happen. They looked back into him, and surely they saw his regret.

If only he had been stronger.

The waves of sorrow rushed past him, and he was left alone once more, floating in nothing.

A strange man drifted into and out of his field of vision. The strange man was laughing at him. He had never met the man before, so far as he could recall, but there was a feel of familiarity to him. Every time he looked around, the man seemed to have a new face. The old ones were scattered around in his wake, discarded, hollow. He realised suddenly, that each of the faces was a soul. Hundreds of souls were thrown around the strange man. Who, or whatever he was, death was his constant companion.

One by one, the faces began to weep, until he could no longer see them.

The laughter echoed endlessly in the black abyss. The pitch and volume became a scream. He had heard that scream before. He shivered in fear, covered in a cold sweat. Everything faded.

If only he had been stronger…

* * *

He thought he could hear muted voices, talking in whispers nearby, but his muddled mind could not understand them. He did not even have the energy to move. He was unsure where he was, or what was happening. The darkness came and claimed him once more.

* * *

He stood in a strange room. There were dozens of walls, each a whirling mixture of colours, constantly shifting. The roof was domed with a multitude of panes, each linked to several others, honeycombed like an insect's nest. The floor seemed somehow intangible, yet solid at the same time. It felt almost as if he were sinking as he stood still, but would be firm as soon as he exerted any force.

There was an inexplicable oddness in the place, and he thought he heard a distant, muted shriek. The space in the centre of the room seemed to rotate and distort, in a way he could _feel_ more than see, as if the event was one his eyes could not interpret. When the distortion faded, in the middle of the room, he watched a man twist into existence. It was the man who had tried to kill him: his father.

Link tried to speak, to ask him why he had done such a thing, but the words came out as extended, disjointed noise in the strange place he'd been taken to. The walls rippled, their textures becoming a great whirlpool of undulating colours. His father rushed forwards and struck. He blocked with a sword he did not realise he held. The clash of their swords echoed a thousand times. In every one of the walls and ceiling panels, he saw them both; a strange reflection, moving in perfect unison to their actions. As he blocked dodged and weaved through the attacks, he considered trying to use the reflections for some sort of advantage, and caught sight of one particular panel out of the corner of his eye. The reason for noticing that one before the others was clear: It was not a reflection any more. The battle it showed was different. He watched in horror as a sword pierced his image's chest. He could almost feel the pain, panic rising through the mind of his other self, and being replaced with emptiness.

The panel went black.

He felt the twisting again. Once again, his father stood in the middle of the room. In perfect unison, in every single panel, he spoke;

"You can never win."

In his surprise, Link barely parried the next strike. More and more panels split off from reflections of his current battle. A second light went out, then another.

In a nearby panel, he saw an image of himself launch a daring counter-attack. The mirror's blade snaked around his opponent's guard, scoring a narrow gash along his father's side.

 _Twist._

His father stood in the middle of the room, seemingly in every window. His voice echoed out infinitely:

"Your actions are meaningless."

He attacked once more, with renewed vigour. Link was forced to concentrate entirely on his defence, unable to spare any attention for the other panels. He was forced backwards by a series of brutal attacks, each threatening to break his guard. His back hit the wall behind him. He felt it ripple and bulge outwards, before solidifying against him. He ducked under a horizontal swing and tried to dive out to the side, away from the walls. He moved too slowly, however, and was sent sprawling on his back. His hasty, one-handed parry was forced aside and he was run through by his father.

His body shook out of shock and dismay, for, oddly, he felt no pain.

The world shook.

He felt his limbs go slack as the sword slid out. He slumped down flat on the ground and the world went dark.

He absently noticed another panel fade. A flood of memories hit him. Suddenly, he remembered dying, as if the experiences of those who fell before him were spread around to the nearby windows. He had been in several other panels. He had fought and he had lost. The visions threatened to overwhelm him. His struggle to control the wave of images and sensations was as fierce as his battle against his father. Somehow, he fought them down.

One by one, the lights went out.

* * *

He stirred slightly, confused and reeling from the impossibility of the place, his brain struggling to reject its implications.

"He's dreaming again." The soft voice he had heard earlier carried through the haze in his mind.

"Good, if he's sleeping, he's not dying. Now leave him be." The second voice was firmer, expecting instant obedience.

"But he's crying…"

* * *

He opened his eyes. More than half the panels had fallen dark now, his reflections fallen; bested in combat by his own father. He raised his sword wearily. He remembered dying dozens of times. He did not remember ever truly injuring his foe. Each panel seemed a new fight. He could mortally wound his father once, then, if he was defeated, his father would be completely unscathed in the next reflection.

"There is no hope." He was beginning to believe his father's echoing words. He no longer felt like he could win. He was not even sure he could survive, or escape if he did.

The battles became a blur of violence, blood, and death. Always he would fall, and awake in a different panel. Sometimes he fought as an equal, challenging his foe. In every reflection afterwards, he would be brutally humiliated, his spirit crushed.

The now almost familiar onslaught of images and memories passed, and found himself in a field of darkness. He saw only one more light remaining in all of the panels. He knew he had failed to win a single encounter. He looked at his father, and saw no fear or panic there in his face. One arm hung limp at his side, slowly dripping blood. A cut in his forehead had dried and clotted, and a gash snaked along his ribs.

Anyone else, in any other place should have been slowed down by those injuries, but not him. Not here. He fought exactly as he had before, as if it had not even hurt him. Nothing short of a fatal blow would stop him.

Link was not unscathed himself. His father's sword ran red with blood. He was beginning to feel dizzy, and his vision wavering. Even a moment of weakness could be fatal. He had to end it soon.

He raised his sword. It looked like he felt; it was notched and battered from the repeated clashes. The leather hilt-wrappings stained with a mixture of perspiration and blood. He felt a strange empathy towards it. It was a solid, double-edged blade, designed for utility, not appearance. One side was almost blunt already. He looked along the chipped, worn edge at his foe.

A grim resolve settled over him. One way or another, it would be over soon.

His father rushed towards him. Link parried a horizontal swing, and dodged an overhead strike. His counter nicked an exposed shoulder. He spun around a wild thrust and sliced his father's cheek.

They danced and whirled, scoring light hits on each other, trading blows at a frantic pace. Finally, his opportunity came. Over-correcting from a rebutted swing, his father stepped backwards. Link leapt forwards, blade raised over his head, swinging down. His enemy's blade came up to block, but too late, and too slow. As the world seemed to slow to a crawl, Link knew. The block was too hasty, and the weight of his strike would force his opponent's blade aside. It would be a savage wound. He had won.

Their swords met. Link smiled as he felt something give way under the pressure.

Link's sword shattered. Half the blade spun away as his momentum carried him to his knees in front of his father. The tip of his sword clattered to the floor, the ringing reverberated strangely in the empty silence. He stayed there, eyes wide with dismay. This could not be happening.

A wicked grin appeared on his father's face- the first real emotion he had shown in this strange place.

A kick broke Link's guard. The savage retaliatory strike severed his sword arm at the wrist.

His scream echoed into the empty blackness as the light went out.

He was in the last panel now. He had watched his last reflection, the greatest swordsman of them all, fall. He felt numb. At first he had felt fear, now he knew only despair. He had not even raised a sword in this panel; for some reason, he had never had one. His father had spoken to him and him alone. He had told him to simply watch, and understand. He had watched, and he understood.

He fell to the floor. Drops of wetness fell silently, landing between his hands. The words came unbidden from his mouth, speaking from the depths of his hopelessness.

"I can never win."

His father laughed, as Link wept silent tears.

All the world went black.

* * *

He awoke rapidly, hyperventilating, the memory of what he had just experienced still fresh in his mind, destroying all conscious thought. He sat bolt upright and clutched at his wrist, lungs heaving. Pain blossomed all along his right side. The world lurched as his head spun, his vision becoming blurry. His lungs gasped desperately for air as waves of nausea crashed into him. He teetered on the brink, dozens of sensations assaulting him all at once.

His felt his stomach heave and cramp. He rolled onto his front. It felt like the world was whirling and churning endlessly. The dizziness and nausea overwhelmed him, and he vomited noisily over the side of the bed.

His arms were shaking by the time his stomach had emptied, and his breathing was ragged. Black flecks filled his field of vision, which seemed dull and narrow. He gripped onto the bed with all his feeble strength, as if it were his only lifeline. His whole body felt incredibly weak to him, every motion seemed like an incredibly arduous task. His head was pounding, and he could hear his heartbeat in his ears, but the dizziness and nausea seemed to be passing.

His memory was already beginning to fade, already he could only remember general event. That dreaded aura of despair was the only thing still clear in his mind.

His breathing was beginning to return to a normal pace now, and the haze in his mind was beginning to clear somewhat. His eyes took in the stone block walls, the simple furniture, and candles lighting the room softly. Recognition hovered at the edge of his perception, but came no closer. A drop of sweat ran down his face, and he noticed a shimmer of perspiration over his arms too. Not the cold sweat he had awoken with, or suffered whilst his stomach had relieved itself. He was suddenly aware of how warm he was. Something was wrong, his instincts told him. Something was very wrong.

The pain he had felt down his side before returned anew, a torrent of torment, rushing up against him. He looked down at the floor, and saw it was splattered in red. He half rolled, half collapsed onto his back on the bed. His leg protested, and shards of white-hot agony spread through it. He lay back down, staring at the ceiling. It was achingly familiar, in several ways, though the memory still escaped him. His pains grew worse, his burns feeling as if the fires raged anew upon his blistered skin. It took considerably longer for oblivion to claim him this time, and when it did, he welcomed its embrace. His eyes slid shut and he failed to notice that the bandage wrapped around his leg, which was already heavily stained, had begun to allow a trickle of dark, red blood to leak out from under it.

All he heard was the muffled thumping of his heart in his ears. All he felt was the heat, and the pain.

* * *

He opened his eyes to an oddly familiar scene. He stood in an almost endless grassy meadow, near the top of a gently sloping hill. A balmy breeze brushed by, carrying with it the scent of spring's blossoms. Blades of lush, green grass tickled around his ankles and beneath his feet, cradling them playfully.

He sat down and leaned back against the tree, which, though he had never seen it, he knew was there. How he knew, he could not be certain, but he felt its oddly smooth bark supporting his back. One knee pulled up to his chest, he allowed his eyes to slide shut, and his worries to slip away. He was certain he had seen this place before, like a remnant of a half-forgotten dream. The village was still there, spanning the river as it had been before, but this could not be a dream; something about it felt more real, almost solid.

Everything else that had occurred was surely the nightmare. It was simply too much to believe that any such events could really happen. Though, deep down, he knew that it was wishful thinking. Horrible tragedies came to pass almost every single day. Sometimes, terrible things just happened. He could not lessen his grief by imagining otherwise. Pain was a simple fact of life. Telling himself so did not make him feel it any less keenly, however.

He felt the uncomfortable warmth rising all around him.

Eyes flickering open, he saw the grass wither under the oppressive heat, the sun's baleful gaze willing it to die. Already, the river had dried up. He knew what was coming.

He tried to escape to his peaceful dreamscape, but it felt as if he rebounded against an invisible barrier. He tried again, and again, feeling the panic rise. He threw himself mentally against the wall, an unseen bubble around his sleeping mind. Each time he projected himself out, he slid against the surface, being pushed firmly back towards the dream. He was truly trapped, and would be forced to watch the encroaching horror.

He turned and saw the village burning. It brought back such vivid memories of Kohlin that he was almost overcome. Then, in the heat haze from the flames, he saw a rippling in the land, and before his very eyes, the village changed. He was stood staring down at his own village, in flames. It was Kohlin. His emotions surged through him. He had already seen his home destroyed once; he did not think his heart would survive a second time.

The ground swelled, and out of it surged writhing tentacles, reaching towards the village. He was on his feet and running before he even realised. He did not know what he could do, but he had to try. The tentacles had reached the village. They reached out, like vines of evil, and snaked up the sides of nearby houses. The corruption washed over them as they were taken, and the walls began to darken.

He was already beginning to slow; his leg felt weak under him, close to collapsing. Every ragged breath he drew sent a scythe of pain into his side. He was only half way to the village. He would not make it.

The grasping tendrils seemed to split, and in turn, they spawned the monstrous soldiers his father had brought down upon Kohlin once already. They savaged the land, killing helpless, innocent villagers. The grief hammered into him anew, threatening to burst out of his chest. He tried to let out a cry of anguish, but from his parched throat, it came out as little more than a murmur.

By the time he reached the green, the village was a ruin. The buildings had been stained black, and the streets were knotted with layers of the tentacles, which now lay still. Everywhere, he saw death. Some villagers lay peacefully at the side of the streets, some face down in putrid pools of bubbling liquid. Others were impaled on vicious appendages which had burst through the ground. Silent tears clung to his face. He had reached the spot he had fallen during his fight with his father, he realised. He looked down. The village elder's corpse lay in front of him, headless. Next to it, lay a man who could only be his grandfather. The body was still and peaceful in death; he had been impaled with Link's own sword.

His scream seemed to echo forever.

* * *

He thrashed and writhed in the bed, his grief building to uncontrollable levels. He felt a sharp pain in his leg, and he could control it no longer.

The cry of anguish burst forth from a tormented throat, dry and burnt from the smoke in the fires. He felt a stabbing sensation in his side. He almost passed out from the pain. He started coughing, which merely made the agony much worse. His breathing was shallow by the time he had the coughing fit under control, and each inhalation sent a fresh jab of discomfort along his side. His hand came away from his mouth covered in flecks of blood. He tried to control his panic and keep his breathing as level as possible, difficult though it was. He looked down and saw a heavy bandage wrapped around his thigh, stained black with dried blood, being replaced rapidly with a vibrant red which was now pooling rapidly beneath his leg. As he attempted to sit up, he felt the waves of agony crash into him again, and thought better of it.

He lay back, and tried to force down the pain.

The memory of all his struggles to save Kohlin slowly ebbed back into focus in his mind, and he came to a depressing conclusion: It was too much. The injuries he had taken were far too much for one body to take.

Staring at the ceiling, he suddenly realised where he was. He had been there once before in similar circumstances.

He was just a child when his father had disappeared, to leave him alone with his grandfather. He had ran away to go find where his father had gone, but had fallen ill. They had found him, and brought him back here, the church.

 _Oh well. It's as good a place to die as any…_ He thought grimly, as his blood began to soak the bed sheets beneath him.

* * *

"Idiot child!" A sharp voice pierced through the fog in his mind, though he did not know from where it had come.

He felt the oppressive warmth before he saw it. His bones seemed to ache from the waves of heat.

He opened his eyes to a world of flame.

Fires and scorched earth seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see.

The ground was black and charred, steam and noxious smoke seemed to rise off every surface. Huge, faintly glowing boulders were scattered around, as if thrown aside by a careless hand. Even the very heavens themselves were not immune. Great clouds of ash spread across the sky, which was tinted a baleful orange. Occasionally, small clusters of burning stone would fall from above, as well as a light sprinkling of ash that fell and settled upon the land, before burning away rapidly under the heat. The very land itself seemed to boil and bleed, like jagged wounds in the earth, haemorrhaging molten rock. The ground groaned, as if under great strain; the earth was creaking in its death throes, about to break. Earthquakes ravaged the land, trying to throw him from his feet, and threatening to tear the continent apart. Even the largest boulders were tossed around as if they weighed nothing, mere playthings for this unstoppable force of nature.

Already, he felt a burning sensation in his feet as the scorching heat seeped through the soles of his boots. He stepped slowly forwards, his footsteps making hissing sounds each time they touched the ground, as the leather charred and warped under the strain. Sweat was running freely from his skin now, though it did little to cool him. The ground sloped gently upwards in front of him, and grew steadily more stable. Before, the ground had formed rivers or sometimes small pools of the molten rock, but was clearer of most debris. Now the boulders were in a greater variety of sizes, and there were less lava flows visible.

It felt like he walked for an age. His throat was dry. His leg throbbed with every halting step. His lungs burnt, and each breath brought little relief; the super-heated, parched air seemed to sting his tortured throat. Every so often, the ground would break open nearby, emitting a jet of steam or noxious gasses from deep within the earth. They stung his eyes, or worse, made him double up coughing and choking.

He heard the rumble of thunder off in the distance, mirrored and echoed by the ground shifting and breaking, sending small tremors rumbling beneath his feet. The ground in front of him had been gradually growing steeper. He was now scrambling up slowly, using his hands to guide him the last few metres before what seemed to be the top. His hands were scorched, and he had stopped sweating a while back. Now he had no defence against that dreadful heat, and he felt his body warming up. He was dizzy, his mouth was dry, and his head was pounding. Dehydration was taking its toll on him. He knew he had to reach the top though. Nothing else mattered.

His hand gripped the rim at the top of the slope and he pulled himself up, ignoring the smell of burning flesh, and the blisters on his fingers. Hands on his knees, he rested a brief moment, gulping down deep breaths of air, which tasted slightly less foul now.

He looked out at the world, already knowing what he would see; Desolation. Ruin. Apocalypse. The destruction stretched as far as the eye could see. The world was covered in ash; the fires of war had scoured the land, and destroyed it.

This was the inevitable conclusion of the path they now walked upon. Events had been set into motion that would bring the fall of mankind, and leave the beautiful land of Hyrule a ruined shell. A tear fell from his cheek at seeing such wanton destruction. Who could possibly want this, and why? The answer came to him unbidden. His father would cause this. He gritted his teeth, and clenched his fists until his hands ached. His breathing, already laboured, came in ragged bursts. Was it the smoke around him in the air, or was he seeing red in his fury? His rage blocked out everything else. He could not hear anything other than his own heartbeat. He could barely see. He could not feel a thing.

He tilted back his head, and yelled. A savage, bestial sound escaped his throat, more akin to the cry of a beast howling at the moon than to any human voice. The ground trembled. A nearby mountain erupted, hurling debris into the air. Enormous chunks of searing rock rained down on the land, balls of fire scorched the earth, and bolts of red lightning fell from the sky at his call. The chaos and carnage of the land seemed to beat in time with the fire in his heart.

Lungs empty, his yell faded away into the distance, but his anger did not. It was not the cold fury he had occasionally fallen to in the past, but a burning, feral rage. He felt something behind him in the distance, seeming to mirror his feelings, as if he were connected to it. It beat in time with his heart and pulsed with his ragged breathing. It seemed to ebb and flow in time with his haggard emotions. He turned and looked back the way he had come. The lip he now stood upon stretched around in a massive ring, the ground sloping down and away to its lowest point at the centre. It was an enormous crater, as if something monumental had crashed down from the heavens there, and burned the world. He squinted, trying to see down through the smoke and the heat haze that hung in the air. The pulsing sensation he felt seemed to be coming from the very centre of the crater, where conditions were worst and the ground was most ruined. Still, he felt drawn to it, and he felt it pulling slowly on him, urging him down. He heard a gentle whispering in his ears, urging him on.

In a daze he stepped forwards, completely forgetting his precarious footing. He was about to fall down the slope, and probably to his death, tumbling down amongst the jagged rocks and broken boulders, when gentle hands made of mist seemed to grip his arms, and guide him back to the ground. The mists coalesced into humanoid shapes, hovering around him, leading him onwards.

"What is he doing?" They seemed to say to each other.

"He needs our help. We can't leave him."

"It might be too late now."

"...I'll do it. Whatever we have to do."

"As you wish."

He ran forwards, heedless of his injuries, trying to ignore the pain he felt. He sensed a soft chill surrounding him, countering the heat of the place. His steps seemed lighter as he sprinted towards the centre of the crater. He could see the heat haze and the smoke forming a bubble now, protecting whatever was in the epicentre from view. He heard it calling out to him now, almost singing a siren's song to him. He rushed forwards, but the spirits held him back.

He reached out towards it. He must be mere feet away. Being so close to it, whatever it was, was ecstasy. Being unable to touch it was agony. His injuries seemed to crash into him, knocking him off his feet. Sprawling on his back, he stretched his arms out, desperate to hold onto it, captivated by its song. He could almost see it now, a shimmering, reflective surface, tinged with a baleful red as it fed on his rage. He could see the glow surrounding it. It pulsed in time with the pounding in his ears. It screamed out to him, and he yelled out back to it.

"It's not working!" One of the spirits seemed to cry.

"Then he's lost."

"No, we can save him together. Go get what you need, I'll hold him."

He felt something cool press against his warm forehead, and the spirit seemed to become clearer to him. He saw the outlines of a face, which was surrounded in a golden glow, obscuring everything else. He could no longer feel the pulsing, or hear the siren's song.

"I'm so very sorry, but this is going to hurt rather a lot. Be strong, and please don't die." The voice was soothing, and filled with concern. He thought he might be smiling for a moment.

The glow intensified. He felt an odd sense of discomfort. The scene around him vanished. Stone block walls appeared around him for a brief moment, before fading.

Then the pain began.

* * *

The pain was worse than anything he had ever felt. A brutal assault of excruciating agony slammed into him. He could not even scream under the devastating onslaught. He felt as if it tore him apart, then placed him back together, piece by bloody piece, savouring his suffering, all so it could start again. He saw a face above him, and felt tears running down his cheeks. He was not sure whether they were his tears or not. He struggled and writhed, and found he was pinned down firmly. Everything warped and twisted.

Familiar, hideous, multi-coloured walls surrounded him. His father loomed over him, a look of intense revulsion on his face, as if he had tasted something particularly foul. Vine-like tentacles sprung up from the ground once more, writing, and stretching towards them. Some wrapped around his father's ankles, and snaked up his leg. Link saw them moving around, before they re-appeared above his collar. They seemed to melt into the flesh of his face, moving just beneath the skin. Link watched in horror, as the colour and shape of his father's eye changed, and recoiled when he realised he had seen it before, in his dream before the attack on Kohlin, which seemed so long ago.

A horrific smile seemed spread across his father's face as he let out a sound that seemed a laugh to Link's ears. Vision blurring, he could barely see through the pain. His bones ached, and his heartbeat felt erratic. His skin felt wet and clammy, for all he knew, it was his blood and not sweat, bursting out of every pore. From the pain he felt, he knew it could be, as every last drop of life was wrung out of him.

"Hurry!" A voice called out. The tentacles reached out and pinned his arms to his side. One of his father's hands pulled his mouth open.

His father leaned forwards then, and opened his mouth. Darkness lay there waiting, just inside. Instead of a tongue, there was an oozing, pulsating mass of gelatinous matter, wriggling and swelling, its black surface slick and shiny. It stretched out towards him, a cohesive form that twisted and shaped itself. It brushed up along his face, leaving a trail of slime behind as it licked him, before retreating into the monstrous maw. The mouth shut, and Link shuddered in revulsion. The mouth opened again, and the foul substance poured out like a liquid, but infinitely more loathsome. It landed in Link's mouth, where it writhed like a million festering maggots, a scene straight out of nightmare. He heaved, and spat the foul mixture out reflexively.

"Hold him!"

More of the evil concoction began to pour towards his mouth. He twisted, and it ran down his cheek. It felt oddly cool on his skin.

"Please drink it!"

"If you don't drink, you'll lose your leg or your life."

He could not think straight. He must be hearing things.

He was going mad from the pain. Nothing made any sense. Was he alive, or dead? What was real? He could not tell any more. His mind teetered on the brink, and he surrendered. He could not avoid it this time. The mixture poured down his throat, until none was left. Its after-taste was sweet, and cooling.

"Do it now." The stern voice was coming from off to the side. Had he seen anyone standing there? He glanced over, and saw a vague outline of a person, tall and slender, but little more.

The soft chill from before seemed to settle upon his entire body, before rushing along him. It went first to his face, where the liquid had spilt upon his cheek, then down his throat to his stomach. The chill seemed to concentrate into sheer ice, sending freezing cold through him, as if his heart were pumping glaciers around his body, in place of blood. The unnatural chill faded, though more slowly than it had come.

"Is that it?" The face in front of him asked.

The images around him, and the face in front of him, shattered.

It left behind the mist spirit he had seen earlier, surrounded by its golden nimbus, glowing like the sun. He was in the room again, somewhere in the church. Its grey stone blocks were a comfort after the nightmare.

"Yes, it's working. He'll live." The speaker was the same stern sounding woman he had heard earlier, though her tone held less edge.

The glow lessened, and the mist coalesced into the face of a beautiful young girl. The golden nimbus disappeared from her long, blonde hair, and she smiled at him.

"I'm so glad." She replied, still smiling.

He smiled back as his eyes slid shut.

The pain was gone.

[Comments and reviews are welcomed. This story may be slow in updating, and will probably run long- possibly novel length. Please be patient with update schedule, and if things seem confusing at first. Questions will be answered in due course. Apologies for any formatting issues, seems the uploader is eating all my section breaks, still figuring out a work-around. S-T.]


	6. Chapter 2

**Becoming the Legend**

 **Chapter 2**

It was shortly after full sunset. The evening was quiet in Castle Town, and the air had an unseasonal frostiness about it. The great wall loomed ominously around the city, built from huge grey slabs of chiselled stone. They still looked new, if not pristine. It had been built generations ago, when the central province was first founded, and had endured well. When the Great King had returned from his conquest victorious, the ruler of all Hyrule, he had ordered the walls scrubbed clean, all hints of staining removed, and the moss washed away. It was said that when the work was complete, the city had almost shone with an inner radiance, though none still lived who could remember for sure.

Tonight, however, they were lit by a different light.

Scattered around the walls, burning torches cast sickly, pale light around them. At these points, and by the main gates, the Royal guard stood alert, despite the cold. One such guardsman watched out over the wall. His armour was well cared for, the helm polished, and the chain bore no traces of rust. His surcoat was clean and neat, proudly embroidered with the crest of a soaring red bird- the Royal Skywing.

The guardsman glanced across to the nearby tower, longing for the warmth as his breath misted in front of his face. His bones ached slightly from the chill, and the armour he wore seemed to only allow the cold to leech through faster. The light within illuminated a small chamber. Inside, regular soldiers grouped up around a fire, huddling for warmth. Wrapped in blankets, they diced, or perhaps played cards, on an upturned crate. The flickering orange flames from a fire somewhere in the room cast a somewhat sinister glow upon them, though they were innocent enough. The nearest of the group looked out, saw the guardsman glancing in his direction, and shuffled slightly guiltily. The feeling did not persist long, however, before the man shrugged and turned his attention back to the game. They were just soldiers, trying to eke out a living any way they could. The Royal guard were the Elite, above them stood only the Knights. The guardsman turned his head away from them, as their attention drifted back to their game.

A solid thud rose up from the base of the tower; it was the sound of a drop bar falling into place, effectively locking the small gate in the wall. That gate was in reality, merely a small side exit, unimportant in the greater scheme of things; it was barely wide enough for a single cart to pass through. Regardless, the King's decree had ordered that all the exits were to be barred at night. All the exits he knew about, at least.

Along the walls, the other gates were sealed, and portcullises lowered. Even the main drawbridge over the river was being lifted; the winches were driven by massive stone counter-weights, pulling up the huge iron chain links. Before the recent months, most people would have been hard pressed to recall the last time it had been so. Some said it was a sign of the times, and thought the King prudent in his decision; they thought his caution was rational and appropriate. After all, the King was not the tactical genius his grandfather had been when he conquered the warring provinces. Nor did he have the intellect of his predecessor, the master diplomat, who had struggled to stifle old grudges, solidify the shaky allegiance between the provinces, and forge the young kingdom into a mighty nation. No, this King was slow, and cautious, they said. The perfect man to lead after generations of turmoil and upheaval.

Others, however, were less flattering in their views of their current monarch, if more reluctant in voicing them. They called him paranoid and irrational. In his hesitance, he allowed others to get the better of him, and his attempts to stabilise the region showed just how little power he had. One only had to look towards the eastern province to see how fragile the King's rule truly was.

The bridge clicked into place, the locks sticking home in the winches, holding it upright. The man who had released the counter-weights, causing it to raise, walked down a flight of stairs and out the gatehouse; his shift for the day was over.

He stepped out into the street, his feet striking against the cobblestones echoed out with every tapped step. The sound seemed to make the emptiness loom larger in the night. Everywhere, windows and doors were closed. Few buildings had lights lit within; the town was growing nervous Instead of restless, the people grew still. The guardsman passed inns on his route through the sprawling labyrinth of what was called the lower city, but even they seemed muted; very few had hired players this evening, and the usual boisterous roar was absent, leaving only a subdued grumbling.

He turned down a side street towards his home, immediately missing the scant comfort the main street's lamps had provided him. The moon was shining bright in the sky, giving him enough light to see, but he still preferred the reassuring presence of a stout lantern. The chill seeped into his bones on his walk through the suburb. Perhaps he should have left his chain shirt and helm at the gatehouse, but he didn't like being without them on nights like this. He had an uneasy sensation of being followed, like the feeling of being stared at in a crowded room. He started at the grating noise of a roof tile beginning to slip somewhere nearby, and quickly backed into a wall, his arms raised defensively. He waited a few brief moments, before the sound of a cat's call reached him. He laughed nervously, and hurried the rest of the way to his home, just outside the mercantile area that marked the transition to what people thought of as the upper city. He took one last look around, casting his gaze towards the large open area that formed the great market square, and closed the door behind him.

All of the stalls had long since closed shop; even the most persistent peddler would have given in once the sun had fully set. Still, some were packing away their stalls yet, though their goods had been taken away before dark settled upon the square; reports of thievery, almost unheard of before, were starting to become commonplace. Only fools left their items for opportunists. With a full market day on the morrow, many hoped deliveries of fresh food would come in from miles around in the countryside; the local farmers had been growing apprehensive as rumours grew of communities destroyed by bandits grew. No-one really knew the truth of it, but they spread the gossip non-the-less. The granaries in the city still held stockpiles of course, but those that could afford it preferred a variety at mealtimes. The upper city still ate lavishly of course, even if no-one else did. That made the common people grumble even harder, and resent the taxing more.

A small group of street urchins stalked into the square, fanning out and stealthily searching for anything worth taking, be it discarded waste, dropped coins, or even broken goods; anything was better than nothing, and everything had a price, no matter how small. It was a practise that had been happening for years, and didn't truly harm anyone. The guards ignored the one foolish proclamation from the King to try and stop it. It was almost a public service; they kept the market area clean, and it stopped most of the children from starving.

There did seem to be more of them in the recent months, though, and many of them were even skinnier than they had been in the past.

The group scattered and hid as best they could at the sound of an owl's call from the far side of the open area.

A well dressed man was trying to walk surreptitiously through the square towards the lower city, but his failed attempt at skulking made him look more conspicuous, if anything. His pale face was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, which the paunch around his middle indicated was probably mostly from exertion. His well made robe was tight on his stomach, and his eyes flickered around, trying to watch out for any threats around, and failing to see everything. He shuffled down a side street, in the direction of one of the seedier districts. He would be visiting one of the local brothels- if he wasn't attacked for his swelled coin-pouch on the way, which swung openly on his hip, almost as fat as he was. The folks from the upper city liked to pretend they were better than the commoners, but the street children knew they weren't. Only a high-born man would pay to step out on his wife with a night dancer, if they did not have even stranger tastes. They had learnt to stay hidden for just that reason.

The road leading to the upper city was better laid; interlocking slabs of stone formed the way, instead of the cobbles of the lower street. Many of the buildings were large, grand affairs, made of more exotic material. The Temple of Hylia was sheathed in marble, and surrounded by great columns. Buildings of state were adorned with the Royal arms, lacquered all in red and gold, polished to a shine even in night. The few noble mansions all competed with each other in their displays of excess and grandeur. Almost none of the original families still lived there now, one had even bankrupt itself building the palace, and most others had fallen out of favour, to be supplanted by other, more ambitious families. The whole area reeked of opulence, great gardens backed onto each mansion, filled with sculpted trees and shrubs, huge fountains and walkways, statues and mosaic walkways. The great library had a tower that rose almost as high as any other building in the City, and above all loomed the Castle, the seat of power in Hyrule.

It was built to be defended in an attack; the first King had seen to that. Double portcullises, killing grounds, and wide, high walls formed the outer protection of the compound.

* * *

A tall man stepped out of the main gate to the castle. He wore a set of metal plate, covered in intricate inscriptions and runework which seemed to glow faintly blue in the night. A great, two-handed sword was strapped to his back by a large belt. The man looked around, the delicate patterns around the visor of his helm glowing more brightly for a moment, before reaching up and pulling at the head-guard. It split open at the sides, and he lifted it off in one piece.

The cool air was refreshing against his tanned skin. The breeze caught in his styled red hair, blowing it about. He raised his hand to guide the stray locks back in place, before seeing his gauntleted fist, and laughing. It was a rich, deep bark. He hated the helmet; it was impossible to maintain his hair in perfect style when he wore it. It had its uses though, more so even than the rest of his armour, which was far more functional than one might assume from how easily he moved in it.

He walked towards the gate-house, his footsteps oddly quiet on the stones beneath him. The armour made very little noise at all. The plates did not rattle when they struck adjoining pieces; the main noise was just the soft sliding of one sheet of metal over another. His sword shifted against his back, and he stopped, looking around. He couldn't see anyone nearby, but he took his time, and finally heard someone approach. In the gloom of the night he still could barely see her until she was fully out into the courtyard, and, once he did, he wished he had kept his helmet on.

Arika, the King's advisor, was beyond stunning. He guessed she was perhaps in her mid-thirties, but she did not appeared to have aged at all in the twelve years he had held his position. Her pale skin and black hair was striking enough, framing a perfect face dark eyes and soft full lips...

His sword shifted again, and he struggled to maintain focus. He nodded to her, giving the perfect level of respect and deference for her station.

"My Lady." He said, trying to make the decidedly casual and unusual meeting seem as formal as possible, and hoping she followed suite.

She stepped forwards further out of the shadows, wearing an extremely immodest dress, with a plunging neck-line, and a slit down the side to half way up her thigh.

"Knight-Captain." she replied with his official title, before adding a sweeping curtsey, leaning forwards to display a scandalous amount of cleavage, as well as allowing as much of her leg to be revealed as possible. He tried hard to keep his expression level, but the smile on her face as she looked up at him showed he had failed. He shifted nervously. his sword striking against his back plate so much that he felt it. He was surprised he couldn't hear it.

"How much practise did it take to perfect that?" He said, his voice sounding hoarse to his ears.

She tilted her head, smile changing slightly as she straightened and looked at him.

"To perfect what? My greeting was as correct and formal as yours. I thought I was being polite."

"There's polite and there's forwards."

"Like this?" She smiled widely at him, and he froze in panic, before she started stepping forwards towards him. She stopped less than two feet away from him. "Far enough forwards for you?"

Goddess, but that dress was practically transparent.

"You're dressed rather...formally for a trip to the castle." He knew mentioning her dress dangerous, but it was all he could think of to try and diffuse the situation, which was rapidly becoming untenable.

"As are you, wearing that incredible armour. Don't you ever take it off? I'd love to take a look at what's inside..." He voice was like silk. If not for the thundering in his eardrums, he would have been hard-pressed to tell whether his heart was even still beating. Thankfully, her smile changed from sultry to satisfied. "I was planning on entertaining if you must know."

"Have anyone specific in mind?" He could just walk away, and suffer the consequences later.

"As a matter of fact, I did." His mouth and throat felt dry. Was she leaning in closer to him again?

"My heartfelt sympathies to whoever was denied your company." He said with a smile.

"So formal, Knight-Captain. Always on alert, always keeping your guard up. You've made quite the reputation, and I've yet to see you fail to live up to it."

"It's a requirement for the position, I'm afraid. I had some rather large boots to fill."

"And you've filled them admirably. You're a fine figure of a man, and could have your pick of any woman at court..." The emphasis she placed on certain words unnerved him. Her actions in general were odd to him. She was said to have rather active appetites, true, but he held his suspicions that her reputation was much like his own: a fabrication. Her actions this night lacked the subtlety he had come to expect from the King's advisor. Her political aptitude was unquestionably impressive, with undercurrents that he could barely detect, let alone understand.

"Would you care for an escort to the King's chamber? I wouldn't want to keep you from attending him." It was a last attempt of escape, though he realised it would not actually excuse him from her company.

"No, none of us would want me kept from him right now. I believe he's going to make a decision tonight which will shape the coming months, if not years. If you had plans of walking me through the halls dressed like this, I'm afraid it's not your night. Besides," she added, "you're far too over-dressed." She kissed the tips of her fingers, and raised them towards him. He started, and a sound of scraping metal came from somewhere near his shoulder brace, but she merely brushed the fingertips against his cheek.

"Sweet dreams, Knight-Captain. Don't stay up too late thinking of me..."

She stepped away, her hips swaying as her tall, slender frame seemed to glide towards the door into the castle.

He stood for a moment, watching after her, before shaking his head and turning away. The torches hurt his eyes briefly, had they gotten brighter? A breeze fanned the flames, causing the light to dance and make patterns in the shadows on the walls. He walked forwards, something troubling him. He had not left the King's side for much of the evening before he was dismissed, and didn't recall anyone being sent to summon the advisor.

He stopped looking over his shoulder at the King's study. The fire had died down before he had left, but a lamp remained lit within, casting a feeble light through the dirty glass.

He caught sight of his sword's hilt, and noticed the weapon was not fully in the sheathe; an inch of the blade stood exposed. He pushed it back into place until it clicked against the metalwork around the top of the scabbard.

"Yes, I know," he said to the blade as he stepped out onto the path leading to the rest of the upper city. "Dangerous."

* * *

The King sat in his study, brooding. The room was by no means small, but compared to the grander halls in the castle, it felt more comfortable. He felt insignificant in the throne room, as if a much larger, more imposing man than him was supposed to rule from there. The walls surrounding the fireplace and the door were covered in bookshelves, though he had barely read a fraction of the tomes there. His Grandfather, the diplomat, had been the heavy reader. Embers burned red in the ornate hearth, the slowly diminishing flames fighting away the night's chill. The fireplace was ornately carved in swirling patterns, worn smooth by age. He could imagine generations of his ancestors had stood before the flames there. They would be ashamed to see the man sat at their chair now. He raised his head from his hands and glanced around him. Reports lay scattered about his desk, and various correspondences were visible, most only half-written, riddled with mistakes, ink blotches, and sections crossed out. He scanned his eyes over them and sighed. None were any good. To the Lord of Lake town, his words seemed pleading. The letter to the elders of the mountain people was too forceful; their chieftain had been fiercely loyal to his grandfather, and even those who came before him. No, there was no need for stern words there, merely sincerity.

Current events were troubling him. Truth be told, current events had been troubling him ever since the untimely death of his father, nearly forty years ago. The King had died young, compared to many others of their bloodline.

The Great King had lived into his sixties, despite the multitude of injuries and wounds he had suffered in his conquest. His hair had fully turned to white, though it was said he never lost his physical prowess. He had sparred with his Knight-Captain the week before he died, they said.

He had left a young man on the throne, scarcely in his teens, who cut a much less imposing figure. The warlords the boy's father had bested in battle thought the new King would be naïve, and easy to sway. They spent the first four years of his reign feeling smug that they had gotten their own way by signing on as official vassals of the realm, protecting their status as rulers, only to spend years after that wondering how the child had manipulated them so thoroughly. Half the laws that had tied them down and stripped their power away had been signed by their own hands.

By all accounts, the child King was a genius, a prodigy the likes of which had not been seen for generations. He had settled dozens of different disputes, broke up unfavourable alliances before forming new ones, and even found agreeable terms with the Gerudo women from the desert. He manipulated the central barons, out-manoeuvred generals, debated with some of the greatest scholars of his generation, and even made some progress with healing the rift between the two Sheikah tribes. In his spare time, he had written several of the books that were on the shelves in this very study. Not military memoirs like the man before him had, but difficult, complicated studies. Essays on philosophy, mathematics, and even a book called 'the physical forces and mechanical manipulation of them' which baffled the King from the very outset.

His Grandfather, no longer called the child King, but instead The Diplomat, had reached nearly his fiftieth naming day, before he died. His son, astute, though not so cunning as The Diplomat, signed a great many favourable trade agreements, which kept many of his vassals content, for the short time he remained as ruler.

It had been a wasting sickness, the healers had said. His blood had come out wrong when they bled him. They said it had affected his mind as well. The King remembered entering the chamber one morning and finding his father chewing on a tied bundle of leaves, given to him by an old woman with iron grey hair. He had smiled at his son, declared he would be feeling better soon. The healers were outraged, said he must have been feverish and delusional to send for a witch to heal him. When he died a few days later, they blamed the 'dark magics' the crone had cast upon him. The King did not believe them. He had chosen to believe his father, and ordered his healers executed for their incompetence. He wanted to brand them traitors, claim they had murdered his father, but his advisor had persuaded him against the choice. When his mother died of pox a few months later, he knew his error. He had made his first mistake, on the first day he had sat on the throne.

He would make many more.

He was not a strong man, like the Great king. He was not a genius, like the Diplomat. He wasn't even shrewd, like his father. He was a weak king. He accepted that.

His one saving grace was his daughter, the Princess. She was everything he failed to be. Some day, soon, he intended to allow her to take the Throne. He would not leave her a kingdom on the verge of ruin, however. He intended to see to the troubles as best he could, so that she could reign in prosperity, and return Hyrule to glory. He just didn't know how he would do that.

A knock rang out from the door, drawing him out of his muddled thoughts. The door opened inwards and his advisor entered, dismissing the guards stood outside as she did. They looked in towards the King hesitantly, before snapping crisp salutes and marching down the hall and out of ear-shot.

"My Lady Arika," he greeted, awkwardly rising to his feet, trying to not overly disturb the piles of documents in front of him.

"Your Majesty," She replied with a nod of her head, closing the door as she did.

As he settled back into his chair, she walked over to the hearth, and, slowly bending down, adjusted the grate. The flames died down, leaving only the red glowing coals and embers, and casting the room into slightly darker contrast.

She remained in front of the fireplace for a few moments, seeming to savour the warmth. Her eyes appeared to be closed, and he thought he could hear her humming.

The shadows cast on her already striking features only seemed to emphasise her exotic beauty to him as he watched, feeling slightly guilty. He couldn't seem to look away though, as if she were the only thing illuminated in the dark room. As she stood, she seemed to uncoil languorously rather as than simply straightening.

She stepped away from the hearth over to the front of his desk, smiling mysteriously at him, and speaking, before dipping into a formal curtsy.

"I could not take my mind off you, knowing you'd be here struggling alone this evening. King Luders, I am at your disposal. Anything you may need of me, I will provide." She held the pose, one knee bent, back curled forwards and her chin dipped.

He felt his mouth go dry. Her home was not far from the keep's gate, but that dress was positively scandalous. His mind was blank of anything to say as the shadows moved over her collar bones as she gently exhaled, and he watched a single bead of sweat run down her chest.

He was suddenly aware of her looking right at him, the eye contact surprisingly intense. He was forced to cast his eyes aside, unable to hold her gaze.

He gestured towards her, stumbling over his words.

"No, now, no need for such for-formality. Not so late, at least."

Finally, thank the Goddess, she straightened to a less compromising position. She stepped up to and around his desk, her long, delicate fingers tracing over the documents there, before stopping at the draft letters, and quickly scanning their contents.

"Ah, you're of course correct. They're not quite right, are they?"

"I just can't seem to find the words..." he replied, rubbing at his temple. "Things never seem to end up how I intend."

"I think I may have erred in advising on the tone here, forgive me." She replied, seeming deep in thought.

He relaxed somewhat at her tone. This was more like their normal interactions. He knew how to respond in these circumstances. He'd be less likely to make a mistake.

"I disagree, I would not even have thought of writing to these people without your assistance. I don't recall a single time you've led me astray. If only the same could be said for me..." He trailed off towards the end, feeling ashamed and uncomfortable.

"No need to go over that again, Luders." She stroked his shoulder, sending tingles down his spine. "The Eastern incident was a whole tangled mess, no-one made any good decisions there. That the Kingdom still stands is testimony that your choices could have been much, much worse."

He felt his shame deepen at her words. He hadn't even been thinking about that.

So many dead, and, nearly twenty years on, they didn't really understand why. An uprising, a force that denied the King's rule occupying the walls. A, siege, a massacre, and one of the Rune Knights missing...the lack of control that led to his other great shame.

"I do not think the Kingdom would survive another event like that. I can't let my weakness destroy our land." He wished his voice sounded more firm, and less fearful.

"You are not a weak King." He did not believe her. Her hand gently cupped his chin, and turned his face until he looked into her eyes. "You're not a warrior, or a brilliant mind. You are a man, who was forced to decide between dreadful choices, but who never denied he made them. You've always strove to do better, and not make the same mistakes again. That sounds like strength to me, a man to be respected, admired, and loved. You're the only man I would ever want as my King." Her fierce sincerity soothed some of his worries away.

"I'm glad that you, at least, have faith in me. Together we can find an answer, surely." He gently clasped her hand as he spoke. A light blush seemed to rise upon her cheeks, and her confidence of moments before seemed to become more awkward.

"Yes. Together. You and I. We can make it work." She turned away, looking towards the fireplace. A breeze through the window must have fanned some life back into the coals, as the room seemed to become brighter. "I'll think more on whom to contact." She said, turning her attention back to the letters. "Perhaps we can leave the Gorons out of this for now. Floria, though..." she glanced up at a map of the Kingdom, made shortly after the Great King had unified the lands, which hung from the one of the walls, before turning back to him. "I believe I see now what's troubling you, beyond everything else."

"I've still had no contact from Zelda."

"Even if she travelled directly to Floria's lake town from here, the Princess would only have arrived a few days ago. A messenger would need a fast horse to deliver a note here in that time."

"If she went there directly? You don't think she lied about her plans in the note?"

"I have no doubt she intends to go there. However, she's very free spirited. If she had other plans as well, no doubt you would have wanted to protect her, and sent an escort. She chafes at such things."

"But how can I know she's safe, if I don't even know where she is? How can a man run a Kingdom if he can't keep track of his own family?"

"I think the answer to both is the same. He has a capable woman help him, of course." Her tone was playful, almost teasing, but he didn't notice at all. "For all of the bad blood between our two clans, even I can't deny that, for an Eastern Shiekah, Impa is...formidable. Aside from the Knight-Captain or the Champion, I can scarcely think of an individual better suited for protecting royalty."

"You know, I forget sometimes that you're Shiekah too. You've been around so long, the rest of your people always seem to come and go..."

"I've been away for a long time, it's true, but being a a Shiekah is about the knowledge we hold, more than the place we live."

"I could send you back, if you miss your homeland-"

"Don't. Don't you dare ever suggest that."

"you were little more than a child when you were brought to court to study to be my advisor..."

"My home is here and my place has always been with you. I may have been a child when I arrived, but I'm a woman now. After my mentor died and I took my place, you weren't thinking of me as a child _then_ , were you?" The shame and guilt from earlier hit him full force, and he slumped in his chair, stuttering and struggling for words. "So we'll have no calling me a child, or suggestions of sending me away, unless you need to be reminded what I can do, as a Shiekah, or as a woman?"

Was he staring? He hoped she didn't notice. His head felt decidedly muddled, and he was struggling to follow his thoughts more normal. Finally, he spoke, desperate to change the subject.

"Yes, she will be fine. Of course. You're right once again. No need to worry, right?"

"Perhaps we could dispatch a squadron of the Royal guard to Floria, to escort her home once her research at the Depositories is complete?"

"Yes, that would be...yes. An escort home would not be out of place. She's the hope for the future, after all. The one that will return Hyrule to greatness."

"You speak as if you don't believe yourself capable of achieving such a goal." She sounded almost sad as she answered him.

"My only wish is to leave a whole and strong Kingdom to those that will follow after me, and to protect the people, while-ever they are mine to protect. That's what it means to be a King."

She seemed stunned for a moment by his words, before leaning in and kissing him on the lips. It was not a long kiss, but neither was it chaste or innocent. She broke away quickly, her face seeming to rapidly cycle through emotions.

"Forgive me, I, I should not have. I...should go. It's late and we'll have reports to go over in the morning and it's late." She seemed to trip over her words in her rush to say anything, but that fact barely registered to him as he attempted to recover. She stepped over to the door very quickly, her movement fanning the hearth again, causing the embers to glow more brightly. She stopped at the door, and muttered something which he only partially caught, "Why...the wrong person..."

"Arika?" He asked, his mind still reeling from the kiss. She hummed, and hesitated before responding.

"The letters. They're fine. They're just written to the wrong people. Re-write them and send them to the opposite recipients. Goodnight...Luders."

She left, just as quickly and unexpectedly as she had arrived.

The closing of the door stoked the flames back up in the fire, the room becoming much brighter. Not that the King noticed. A thought that shook him to his core could not be excised from his mind.

 _Even after all this time, her touch of her lips feels the same..._

The King did not sleep that night, for different reasons than those he had before her visit.

* * *

[Updates will be slower henceforth, as I'm running lower on pre-written material. I struggled a lot with this. Both Luders and Arika are deeply flawed, yet strong in their own ways. I hope their conversation feels both awkward at times, and natural in others. Many things are alluded to here which may be explained later. I hope you're enjoying so far. Reviews welcome. S-T.]


	7. Chapter 3

_Before the end, for her people, whom she cherished so dearly, she made the ultimate sacrifice._

 **Chapter 3: From the Ashes**

"Father!" He sat bolt upright in the bed, staring at the wall in front of him. His breathing rapidly settled to normal. Had he been dreaming? He could not remember.

"I believe you said the same thing, last time you were here." A calm, soothing voice spoke out from his left. "Of course, I wasn't the one to greet you then." He turned and looked towards the voice's owner. It was the village's priestess. She looked tired, and haggard. Her iron grey hair was unkempt, and deep bags were hidden under her eyes. She was looking at him intently, a look of deep concern, as if she had expected a response from him.

"Link?"

"Sister Laverna." The strength of his voice surprised him. The last time he had spoken seemed forever ago. "Will the Goddess bless me?" He said, using the formal mode of address. She stood smoothly, her grace belying her advancing years, and walked towards him as he sat in the bed.

"I didn't think you were a believer."

"I've had a rough night." He muttered, as she rested a hand on his forehead and spoke the ancient words. He noted sadly how old she truly looked. She had always seemed so eternal, immovable. He remembered his visit to the church as a child, and mere days ago, when he had last seen her, she had not looked even a day older. Now, however, was a different story. Her skin was pale and thin on her bony hands, as if the life and flesh had been stripped away, and her fingers shook slightly, moving without the crisp surety of youth. She smiled softly when the prayer was over.

"You had a challenging night indeed, and we were close to losing you for half a day after. You've slept soundly since then though, thankfully." He sat there, looking at her in dismay. "You've been here recovering for two whole days, Link."

"That's nearly three days since…I have to go, and follow them." A gentle tap on his forehead, followed by the placing of her hands upon hips indicated she planned on letting no such thing happen.

"I don't know who you're planning on chasing, but you're not even getting out of this bed until I've made sure your wounds are healing properly, and not infected." He was about to open his mouth to protest, when his stomach cramped painfully and let out an angry noise. "You're certainly not going anywhere until you've had a proper meal, too. We've only managed to give you water so far, and you need to eat to recover properly." Link locked eyes with her for a brief moment, before looking down and away, a defeated expression on his face. She remained still for a few moments, forceful and stern, before her glare was replaced with a look for concern. "Oh my poor dear, whatever happened to you out there?" He ignored the question, and replied with his own.

"What happened to the village, the other people- how many survivors?"

"Are you sure you wish to worry yourself about that right now? Wouldn't you like some food, or to get your injuries checked firs-"

"How many? Please, tell me." He interrupted, with a firm, insistent grip on her wrist. She frowned at him before replying, obviously displeased with him for pushing the issue.

"Thirty nine, including you, are here at the church, now. I know not if others have escaped or fled, but that's what is."

"So few…"

"So many! My little temple is practically overflowing. I'm so proud, and so glad that even that many survived. My heart bursts every time someone else is confirmed lost, but my faith bolsters it when I think of everyone who had the courage to leave their homes, and come here." Tears welled up in her eyes, becoming shiny and reflective. "The Spirit of Kohlin-"

"Is a lie," Link interrupted, his voice laced with bitterness. "They're cowards, all. Running from their homes, with no plans except hiding further away whilst those they knew and cared for suffered and died around them. They could have fought. Together, we would have chased the monsters away!" Her open-palmed slap struck his face and rang out in the room. Tears tumbled down her wrinkle-lined cheeks before she took a ragged breath and spoke.

"That's enough." She said, as he glared at her, angrily. "Don't you ever say such things again. I've heard all about your antics, your battles!" She grimaced as she spoke the word, as if it held a particularly foul taste to her. "You would have us all turn into you? Running around with weapons, hurting people, swinging swords, leading others into danger, and nearly dying for it? We would become little more than the beasts, then." She shook her head, then let out a deep sigh before continuing. "Understand, Link. I would not stand idly by and watch Hylia's precious children die alone, with no aid. Not all fights are won with a sword. Fourteen of those staying here told me that they were saved by you, in some form or another. The rest made their own way, or were helped by others, who tricked the demons and led them astray. Tending to the wounded, soothing the panicked, and sending brave men out into danger to try and keep our sanctuary secure…that was my battle. There is always another way. Never forget that, Link." His head slumped down. He was no longer able to look her in the eyes. He felt ashamed to his very core. "You saved fourteen, beautiful, priceless lives. I cannot condone your methods, but I am so proud of your spirit, tenacity, and desire to help people. You drove yourself to the point of death, and never gave in. You're a hero to everyone out there, even those you didn't personally save. Don't you dare go belittling their courage."

"Of course," he replied, feeling hollow inside "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He curled up slightly at each word.

"Enough of that now, there's only one man who should be apologising, and he isn't you." Something about her words troubled him, but he could not quite place it. "Let's have a look at your injuries. You're still alive, so whatever they did must have worked at least a little, but I'm not fool enough to leave such things up to chance." She began to carefully unwrap the blood-stained linen from around his thigh.

"What do you mean, they?"

"The two who brought you here to the church, dear."

"Who were they?" he asked, curious about his mystery saviours. She hesitated briefly before replying;

"Two women, one was young, the other seemed much older. They didn't tell anyone their names before they left and I didn't ask how they had come to be here; I had my hands full at the time with everything else happening. I do believe they saved your life though." She suddenly stopped, her hands holding the bandages, which were cleaner than it first appeared. "That's remarkable. I would never have thought...a wound like that, even I…" He looked down at his previously injured leg. Instead of the hideous wound he remembered, which had leaked his lifeblood and almost caused his end on the village green, there was a thin, pale scar, barely more than an inch in length. "You are truly blessed, for the Goddess has visited you and touched you. It can be nothing else but a true miracle. There's simply no other way, is there?" It came out as a question, but he could tell she would only accept one answer. Her hands began to probe at the area, working the flesh, checking and testing the muscles underneath. For all he could see, his leg was fully healed. "They certainly did a good job. I would have thought that all but crippling. As it is now, you could be walking again in days, and running around in mere weeks!"

"How is this possible? With that kind of damage, I should have died."

"The Goddess has other plans for you, Link. The young one…prayed, and beseeched the spirits to watch over you. The other mixed herbs and other such, made a curative for you to drink, to aid your recovery."

"So since you're happy with my recovery, I guess I can leave."

"It will be days still, before you can walk any distance on your own, I told you. I've seen much less severe injuries change how a man moves for life, favouring one leg, developing a limp, a strange numbness that never fades…you've healed well, but you can't expect to recover overnight."

"Crippled to walking in an evening, that would be quite a miraculous recovery, wouldn't it? But how about three nights…That's much more likely, don't you think?"

"…You were much easier to sway as a child, far less mule-headed and stubborn."

"I don't remember that."

"Neither do I." A small, controlled smile spread across her face as she replied to him. "I'll always remember the last time you were here. It was shortly after your father disappeared. We tried to tell you not to run off and try to find him, but you wouldn't listen, even to your grandfather. It was blind luck that you were found that time. You recovered quickly, and tried to go after him again, as I recall. Once you got a silly idea in your head, it was difficult to keep your from at least trying it."

She began probing his side, feeling out his broken ribs as they talked, testing for tenderness or signs of deeper trouble. Her touch was soft, if hesitant, but he felt no pain. "You could be tricked into doing what we wanted though, more often than not." She looked up at him, her eyes seemed deep pools of sadness. "Link, don't ask me why, but if you leave again, I don't think you'll ever come back to us. I can't explain it; it's just a feeling. You need to think long and hard before you set out. Think as to whether it will be worth the price. Why are you in such a hurry to leave, anyway? Do you have any sort of plan for what you're about to do?"

"It's something that needs to be done."

"Something you'll justify by saying you're the only one who can do it?"

"I don't know if I'm the only one who can, but after all that's happened, I want to be the one. I'm going to follow them. I'll find the person responsible for this happening to the village. The chaos, the fear, the wanton destruction…he'll answer for his crimes. He'll pay several times over. I'll stop it from ever happening again, no matter what."

"You say stop him, do your really mean just that, or do you want to kill him?" Again, he got the strange feeling that her words implied more than they said, but he could not quite understand. Laverna had always been something of an enigma to him. He tried to read her expression, but failed. Her eyes always seemed to pierce straight to the very depths of his soul. He hesitated a while before he answered;

"I want to know why. Why he would do such a thing, commit an abhorrent crime and cause such suffering. Has he become evil, was he ever good? Could he even have a reason for all of it…He said he used to be a hero, once."

"Will it matter? What sort of monster could cause such reckless destruction, and why would you want to know their reasoning? His mind is lost, and there is very little man remaining in the beast. What good could knowing his motivation cause you? It could serve to merely hurt you further."

"He let me live."

"The way I see it, he left you to die in agony. You cannot believe a single word that man said to you. Why would you even want to?"

"…I have my reasons."

"Link. Do not give in to hatred and revenge. If you must fight, do not kill. Defend. Fight to protect those you love and hold dear."

"I'm not sure I'll have a choice."

A sad, knowing smile spread slowly on her features once more. She lifted herself from her crouch before him, joints creaking and groaning in hesitation, before stretching herself out from the stooped position.

"Your more serious injuries are almost completely healed. Little more than bruises remain, though you may have some scarring. We can't do much about that, at least, especially from the burns. They'll stay with you for the rest of your natural life, I fear. Besides, I hear scars make a man look more handsome, and dangerous." She headed towards the door, and rested her palm on the handle before speaking to him over her shoulder. "I'll send someone with some food for you shortly. There are some clothes out if you wish to dress." She gestured towards a small folded bundle rested next to the bed. "You may feel trapped right now, but you do have a choice, Link. Don't forget: There's always another way." She stepped out, and closed the door quietly behind herself.

He ran a hand through his hair, thinking over some of the things she had told him.

 _40 at the church…so few survivors…_

The village was doomed. They could never hope to recover from the tragedy; he knew that now. So many had died, that they would struggle to gather in the harvest, no matter how hard they tried. Their stockpiles had been put to torch, and the early harvest would not sustain them for long. Eventually it would run out, and they would starve. There was very little to keep him in the village, anyway. He knew he had to leave. He had helped in the best way he could, and could be of use to them no longer. He grieved for the loss. He could have wept.

A strange sensation washed over him. He felt an itch between his shoulder blades, and a prickling of his skin down the back of his neck as his hair stood on his end, almost as if someone were watching him. A drop of sweat ran down his brow, and dropped off his chin unexpectedly. He swore he could hear something calling out to him, and he found himself staring into at the western wall, unfocused, as if trying to see something very far away. With almost a physical effort, he dragged his gaze away, and the moment passed.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts. He wondered, perhaps, if he should not have felt a further sense of duty to the people of Kohlin, but he did not. They had given him his final task already, whether they realised it or not; he would avenge the fallen.

He stood up, somewhat unsteady. His leg ached slightly, but he did not feel any real weakness there. He tested it gingerly, small stretches and twists, but no pain came. That was good. He walked around the room briefly, loosening his muscles, and working the fatigue out of his body. He felt cold seeping into him through his feet and his exposed limbs. Looking around, he saw the room had no fireplace. Churches and Temples were probably all cold, he thought. It may have even been intentional. The chill in the air would make sinners feel guilt, and wish to repent, he thought, cynically.

He saw his sword propped up in the corner nearest the door. That was odd. He would not have thought Sister Laverna would allow such a thing. He stepped over to the small pile of clothes she had left out for him. A simple, white shirt and dark brown breeches lay there, with a pair of worn looking boots on the floor nearby. They would still be warmer than what he was wearing, though. He pulled the shirt over his head, and noted the dust and grime still on his arms. They had not had time or spare hands to clean off most of the dirt from him, it seemed. He could not bring himself to care, really. There would be more blood on his hands, eventually. What difference did a little soot make? The breeches were a looser cut than he would have liked, and the boots rubbed uncomfortably in some places, but were tough, and well suited for travelling long distances. He stepped over to the sword, just standing and looking at it for some time. He knew why he was so hesitant, even though he would not admit it.

His hand reached for the hilt haltingly, as if touching it would force him to relive the events of the last time he had drawn the blade. His fingers brushed against the dark brown leather of the hilt wrapping, now stained with blood and sweat; most of it his. He felt a twinge of pain and a shaking, as the muscle in his leg twitched. He was gritting his teeth and holding his breath, he realised, as if he were afraid. No. He would not be afraid. His sword was a tool. He would not be afraid. Forcing himself to relax, he took a firmer grip on the hilt, and eased the sword a short way out of its sheathe.

The blade seemed to have suffered throughout the ordeal almost as much as he had. The metal was dull and battered, but seemed clean enough. That was good. Rust could ruin a weapon like that. Along its length, he could see nicks in some places, and almost none of either edge still held its sharpness. More troubling thought, was a patch halfway along the sword's length. The metal seemed almost distorted, and stained. He could not remember ever seeing such a thing before. It was just a shade darker, running from a dent which marked a collision with something. What could have caused that? It was almost as if an impurity had forced its way in during the forging process, but that was not possible. The sword had been almost pristine before the previous night. There was little he could do for that though; fixing such a thing was beyond him. He could at least sharpen the blade and restore most of its edge. He had a whetstone back at his house.

He froze, eyes widening at the sudden recollection. His house. How could he forget that? The memories came flooding back. The fires lashed at him. He fell through the weakened, blazing roof. He dove through a window, and heard the blaze rush forth as the ceiling collapsed. His eyes watered from the smoke. His cheek was wet, was that blood?

His mind snapped back to the present. His knuckles stood out white on his hand from the force of his grip on the hilt under his fingers. He slammed the blade back home in the scabbard, and strode forcefully from the room. He was almost in a daze, and he welcomed it. The church swarmed with activity, but he barely noticed. He reached the heavy doors, and someone called his name. He did not turn back. He had nothing more to say.

He walked almost in a trance, scarcely able to believe what he saw all around him. If he had thought Kohlin a ruin before, the murky mid-morning light made it seem that much worse. He took the long route around, avoiding the green, but allowing himself to soak in all the devastation.

He saw it all: ruined husks of buildings on every street, blood stains on walls and floors, mourning families clinging to each other, seeking solace but finding none. It felt like it burned through the wreckage of the place he failed to save. He was alone with his turmoil, with only distant footsteps as company. He absently turned onto a slightly broader street, heading west. He had passed a few people on the way, either checking for survivors, or scavenging for anything worth recovering. He was not sure which. He could not blame them, but he didn't really care. They would find little of either.

A dull ache crept into his leg as he continued his torturous wandering through the ruins of his hometown, but he kept walking regardless. As he reached a patch of dried blood, he paused. He had fought here, he remembered. The slightly stale smell, that odourous decay of monsters half dead filled his nostrils as memories flooded back. The creatures' bodies were gone. He hadn't anticipated that. The survivors had not done it; he had seen them on his trip, still recovering their lost loved ones. No-one would have prioritised the creatures above another villager, surely? _They could have recovered their dead, but why would they do that? Unless they're more human than I thought, or unless…_ Unless they were ordered to do so. He struggled to understand the logic.

Perhaps the survivors had gathered them up first, and simply burnt all the corpses. They could take their time to allow their own fallen a more dignified rest, that way. It made sense.

He put the thought out of his mind. It was easier that way.

He walked on in a sour mood, with pain in his heart; his constant companion. Occasionally he would pass a building which had escaped the maws of the ravenous blaze. The walls stood, soot-stained but intact. One family was filling a small cart with their remaining worldly possessions, which were few. They were heading to the lake town, they said. He should follow, they said. He nodded, disinterested. He knew where he was going now, and where he had to go afterwards. The fates of those who had survived were not his responsibility any longer, whether they abandoned the ruins of Kohlin, or remained and haunted it like ghosts. He could do no more for them there.

He was close now, but part of him wished to delay the moment longer and avoid the finality that seeing the truth would bring. A small child wept openly in the street, mourning a lost parent. Link shared his grief; it echoed in him, followed by his fury, and his pain. He choked back a sob as he approached. The young boy clutched at a ragged blanket, stained with dry blood, providing him with none of the comfort it clearly once had.

Link paused, knelt beside the boy and laid a hand on his shoulder. He squeezed it briefly, trying to send a message. Be strong. Grieve, but don't let it rule you. They boy looked up, and caught his eyes. There was agony there, raw and brutal. Link nodded at the boy. He didn't have the distant, vacant look in his eyes of someone who had given up. There was strength there. They boy's sniffling stopped, and he swallowed before nodding. He understood.

Link wondered what people would see if they looked into his eyes. Would they find strength? Or would they find a ruined young man, hollow on the inside, walking knowingly down a dangerous path from which he might not return. Was that courage, or cowardice? Did he have resolve, or was he abandoning his responsibility?

The boy was looking at him strangely, he noticed, and he looked away sharply, slowly rising to his feet. His leg shook as he stood, trying to betray him. He willed it to stillness, lest it collapse under him. He walked slowly away from the lad, hoping he had finally done some good. The footsteps that had been echoing his had paused while he was with the boy, he noticed. It was a few moments before they started up again. _So they're definitely following me, not just heading in the same direction…_

Whoever it was had kept a respectful distance, and had tried to move silently, as if to avoid drawing attention. They had done well in their attempts, but in the eerie quiet of the day, Link's hearing, honed from his days spent hunting in the woods, had picked out their quiet steps shortly after leaving the church. He didn't know what they were doing, but he had suspicions. _Probably sent by the sister to keep eyes on me, and make sure I don't leave._ He thought as he stalked onwards. He strained to truly hear them. Step, step, step. Each was accompanied by a whisking sound, as something swished in rhythm with the footfalls. They were light and slightly more frequent than his own steps. He thought they belonged to a woman. Had the sister herself followed him? That seemed unlikely to his mind, though it was certainly a possibility. It was a very controlled gait, the walk of someone being very careful. Careful not to make too much noise, or maybe just taking care not to stumble. He could not tell either way. It was simply controlled.

So engrossed was he that he scarcely noticed how close he was to his destination. His foot hit something and he nearly stumbled, barely catching himself in time. He paused, looking down at the ash at his feet, and knelt. His hand brushed aside the delicate flakes, grey mixed with black and white, the only remnants of what used to be a home. His hand struck upon something solid. He brushed off more of the soot, revealing a slightly curved arch. A deep melancholy settled upon him as he understood. He lifted it with trepidation, his heart caught in his throat. In his hand, he held a long, slender arc of wood, snapped a way along its length.

It was blackened and stained with soot. His eyes followed the familiar grain of the wood. It had been carved from a single piece of yew. He recognised the knots in places, and understood the effort that must have gone into crafting it. To be able to withstand the strain put upon it, the arc could have no weaknesses and yet the knot was there, and had never faltered. Even now, it was intact, the break further up. It was ruined now, of course. The wood had charred in places, crumbling slightly under his firm grip, and the string was gone, lost to the flames. It was yet another treasure, stolen away in night, gone forever.

The sadness he had barely kept at bay washed over him, and for some reason, he felt more alone in that moment than he ever recalled being before. His hand was shaking as he gripped the broken shaft. His Grandfather had given that bow to him as soon as he was strong enough to draw it. It was the only memento he had of his father. Forcing himself to loosen his grip, the ruined weapon fell to the ground with a clatter that echoed oddly in the still silence.

 _No, no tears for that man._

His hand swept around through the thin film of ashes, groping for the sword belt he had left near it that night. He found it a few feet away. He did not remember them being so far apart, but many of the smaller details had escaped him, fading into an endless, hazy blur. He was torn; he wanted the memory to vanish completely, yet he also wished he would remember it forever. A part of him needed those memories; a night of noise and fire, violence and destruction. That night was a forge, and he was steel; it had tempered him and now he would be stronger. He stood, grabbing the belt in one hand and gripping his scabbard in the other. He turned the corner, and watched the last thread tying him to Kohlin vanish.

His house was gone.

He had no home.

The roof and upper floor had been utterly devoured by the ravenous flames, their avarice had lead them to consume the walls, until barely a yard remained standing in one corner. All was ash. Great mounds of it covered over the area his floor had occupied. Judging by the depression, it had bitten down and eaten away into the foundations in some places. It was a ruin, and barely even the shell remained.

He stood, watching, waiting to see if he felt anything. He did not. He refused to feel. Any feelings might make his inevitable departure all the more bitter and more painful. He was lost in his own mind, and far more greater turmoil haunted him there.

He felt the need to clear his head. He leaned back against the wall behind him and settled down on the floor, waiting for the moment to pass. Slow, controlled breaths brought the world back into focus. He drew his sword, the blade making a dry rasp as it escaped his sheath. He smiled with grim satisfaction. Fumbling a whetstone from a pouch on the belt, he drew it along the weapon's edge in one fluid motion. He flipped the blade, and worked the other edge. The sound was soothing, the action cathartic. He felt some of his tension ebb away with the process.

He was struck by a grim resolve. His father was a monster for destroying their home town so callously. He would not shed tears on that man's account ever again. The villagers believed him a Hero, so he would act like one.

He gripped the blade tighter, and continued to hone the edge. Sliding the stone along it.

He would do whatever he had to, and become whatever he needed to be.

He swore it upon the fallen of Kohlin.


	8. Chapter 4- part 1

_She gave of her divinity to seal the evil away._

 **Chapter 4: Scars and Guards**

He looked up from sharpening the edge of his blade as a man and woman walked out from between the husks of two cottages. He couldn't bring their names to mind, but they looked familiar. The man was holding a long, sturdy pole, which appeared to have had something ripped off the end. Recognition fell into place; he'd seen the man fighting off monsters during the attack. He nodded towards Link, and walked up.

"Damn if it isn't good to see you awake again. Mighty fine shooting you did that night, I reckon we wouldn't be here without you. Saw you come past and knew I had to say something." The man spoke in a quiet, but firm tone, pointedly looking around, as if to avoid staring down at Link. He seemed to respect him a lot.

"We've been helping others gather their things, and search for anything worth keeping. I'd like to do that for you, if you'll allow." Link was about to reply that there was nothing left in the rubble, when the lady, who he assumed to be the man's wife, spoke up;

"I know it hurts thinking about how much you've lost. We can spare you the pain of sifting through the ashes, at least. Who knows, maybe we'll discover that you've not lost everything after all." Her tone seemed almost pleading. Link nodded his assent, knowing that rejecting their offer might cause insult, and that they would want to try and repay him in some other way after if he refused. They walked over to the ruin, hand in hand, and began quietly discussing, pointing to various areas and surveying what remained.

* * *

He returned to his work on the sword.

Whisk, whisk. Hone the steel, return the edge. Whisk, Whisk, whisk. He'd need it sharp again soon enough. Whisk, whisk. Get lost in the rhythm.

It was easier to not think, right now. He had to keep moving forwards. If he faltered, or stopped, he might never start again.

Whisk, wh-

"W-would you like some soup?" He reflexively tensed at the unexpected sound, a question he hadn't been expecting. Over-taught muscles barely avoided skimming the stone off the surface of the blade and ruining the work he'd begun. After the arrival of the other two people, he'd forgotten completely about the shadow he'd picked up after leaving the church.

A young woman stepped around the corner and, sure enough, she was holding rough-cut wooden bowl of something vaguely steaming as he glanced up. He returned his focus back on the sword as she spoke again. "It's still quite warm. I couldn't- I mean- we don't have many supplies so it's nothing special...you really do need to eat though."

Whisk, whisk.

"I'm not in the mood to eat right now." The lie fell hollow to his ears. He was almost completely drained from just the walk over, though he would not admit it. He just wasn't sure he needed any more villagers fawning over him, or asking after him. He would rather concentrate on leaving as soon as he rested, so they could pay for what they did.

"I'll leave it with you then. But...please, eat." She stepped forwards, and knelt down. Her skirt settled softly into a thin layer of ash as her arms extended slightly, offering the bowl to him. He rested the blade over his thighs, and looked towards her fully for the first time. He did not, however, sheathe the blade.

She had long blonde hair, tied near the nape of her neck, and pulled over her right shoulder. He did recognise her; Anya, he thought. She had worked in the bakery, between looking after her younger sisters. What were their names again? He really shouldn't have isolated himself so much recently. He had saved them, too.

So, she was just another person trying to repay him. They didn't understand. He didn't want thanks, and didn't expect them. He hadn't been trying to save anyone, really.

He was just defending his village.

"You don't have to do this, you know? I don't need thanks."

"I'm not doing it 'cause I feel any sort of debt. I'm doing it because, well...you deserve it."

"Anyone else would have done the same."

"Except I saw plenty who didn't, so that makes you special, to me."

He looked intently at her, and saw a fierce sincerity in her grey-tinged blue eyes. She hadn't been broken by that night. If only he could say the same for many others.

He held out a hand, and accepted the bowl from her, noting her relieved smile as he did. He brought it up to his face, savouring the heat and enjoying the fragrances. It did smell good, he conceded, somewhat more reluctantly than he really should have. His hands were shaking on the bowl, he noticed. He blew on the soup, hoping she hadn't seen his unsteadiness.

"How are the girls?"

"Cremia's a little shaken up, but otherwise fine. Romani...I worry she's too young to understand. She knows everyone's sad, and there are less people, but I don't really know how to explain. I hope Ma copes better..." She trailed off, seeming uncertain for a moment.

He took a sip of the soup. It should have seemed bland, but it tasted wondrous to him in that moment. He felt a brief pain at his middle, which was clearly not reacting well to receiving food after a period of fasting. He had to fight the urge to bolt back the entire contents of the bowl at once. Instead, he took several more small sips, savouring the taste, and pacing himself. She was still sat, kneeling next to him, he noticed somewhat uncomfortably. Her hands were resting near her knees, holding a small bunch of her skirts in them, clenched into a fist.

"How many did you get?" She finally spoke. It hadn't been a line of questioning he had anticipated. He hesitated briefly before his response.

"Why, you here to lecture me like Laverna?"

"No, I want to lecture the cowards who didn't fight." Her voice and face held the same intensity as before. He felt a strong sense of respect for the young woman. She felt the same way as he did.

"It's...somewhat blurry. Dozens, probably. Not enough. Not even close"

"I'm sorry. I can't imagine how it must feel, to be so strong and brave, and still not be able to save everyone, to find something you couldn't handle." Again, she surprised him with a response he could never have expected.

He remained silent for a while, unsure exactly how to respond. She seemed to take his lack of response for something more than pondering, though, as she continued on.

"I-I'm not saying you didn't do enough, though! You did everything you could, and probably more! I saw the state you were in when you were brought in on that cart by those two, my heart nearly burst." He looked at her questioningly at the last. "I just...I hated to see you suffering, knowing that you'd already fought so hard, no-one deserves that, you least of all."

"Those two? The women who Laverna mentioned...do you know anything about them?" She seemed irritated and embarrassed all at once, though he wasn't sure what had evoked that reaction. Her response was somewhat terse, and clipped.

"Very little. They didn't deem me worth talking to. Wouldn't even let me in to see you while they were there. Smug and superior, acted like they were better than us simple folk. Called it a 'Terrible travesty.' Like they could understand."

"Do you know who they were, or where they came from?"

"The old woman called the other 'My Lady'. They said the King's men would be along to assist us with whatever we need. Fat lot of good they'll be now it's all done and the danger's passed. I asked if they'd help us like they did the Eastern province. I mean, we weren't born back then, but everyone knows what went down. The young one stopped pretending to be nice and friendly to me after that. I stopped trying then. You know what they say about nobles. They left the very next day. I'm glad they left. Something about them rubbed me up wrong." She looked away, seemingly finished talking about them.

"Yeah, better off that way. Last thing you want is a bunch of strangers snooping around, telling you what to do." She nodded before reluctantly responding, much more softly.

"At least they managed to save you...Link, no-one really knows much of what happened, beyond that you were out there fighting for all of us, before you fell. I'm not saying you have to talk about any of this, if you don't want to, but...if you were outside, how did you get burnt so badly?" She asked nervously, her voice laced with hesitation.

"They found me on the roof." He replied, between mouthfuls of soup. "Threw bottles of pitch or something and tossed a torch, it caught my side before I was able to dive off."

"Oh, I'm sorry, if not for saving me..."

"No, this was after that. I did plenty to attract their attention on my own, after helping you. I should have moved on sooner." He scolded himself internally for his stubbornness. A true hunter would have relocated to mask his presence, and pick new targets. Yet, something else troubled him, something he couldn't quite place. "Wait, I thought you said you weren't allowed to see me. How did you hear about me being burnt?"

"Oh, Link...Oh you poor thing. You don't know. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." She seemed so sincere, almost hurt, in her apology. He couldn't understand why, his mind seemed to move in slow motion. Was she crying? Why would she be crying?

She pulled something out of a pocket in her skirts, and offered it towards him, her eyes cast down towards the ground. It was a small pocket mirror, slightly dirty, and bearing a long crack down the middle. His hand shook faintly in trepidation as he reached out to take it, setting the nearly empty soup bowl aside. What was she trying to show him, it couldn't be...

His stomach seemed to drop out from within him as he turned it over and stared into his reflection.

Nearly half of his face stood out, the skin angry and red. Scarred forever, and ruined in the fires that had destroyed Kohlin. He stared silently for several long moments. Almost unbidden, his free hand came and touched traced the damaged flesh. It felt almost alien under his fingertips, the texture so unexpected that he could scarcely believe it belonged to him. In places, his skin seemed folded up into sharp ridges, and in others, it was pulled taut, as if it struggled to stretch to his face. The outside edges faded to a more pink tone, closer to his skin colour, as if it had started to heal then stopped. Perhaps that was the work of whatever had helped his leg's recovery. However, the scar on his thigh looked years old. Judging by this, he'd carry the scarring for the rest of his life.

His head spun, and the mess of emotions writhing within threatened to boil over. Both his head, and the arm holding the mirror slumped down, as he took several deep breaths.

"Link, I don't...I mean, I don't know what to say."

"It's just...unexpected. Laverna said something about scars, but my arm doesn't look bad at all. I didn't even think about other burns." _Focus. Resolve. Breathe. Can't fail here._ The words repeated over in his head. "I don't need a pretty face to get revenge, anyway."

"There's nothing wrong with your face!" She blurted out hurriedly. "Well, I mean...I'm not trying to lie or save your feelings, but...the way I see it, you're still you. There's the handsome boy who I knew growing up." She pointed to the untouched side of is face. "and then there's the man, who gave up everything when he dove into the flames, and when he came out the other side, it'd made him a hero." She looked down, overcome with awkwardness again. "Any man left here should be proud of the scars they got that night. Any one without should be ashamed at their lack." He lifted his head, looking off into the distance at her words.

"Yes. The sword remembers the forge, but is seldom fond of it." She looked up at his unanticipated utterance, as if she had thought he would take much longer to recover from his shock.

"What was that?"

"Something I heard once a long time ago, I think. It's just one more cruelty I'll make him answer for, when I find him." He looked in the mirror again, seeing his face split in two by the crack in the surface, neatly reflecting the scar, almost made it less painful somehow, as if he were two different people.

 _If I look at it like this, it's almost like I'm wearing a mask._ That helped _. It's just a mask I can take off, whenever I want to. Whether I'm a Hero, or a Hunter. Whether I'm after answers, justice, or vengeance. It's just another Mask._

He handed the cracked mirror back to her, and set back to finishing his food, no longer caring to pretend his body didn't desperately need it.

"What actually happened, Link?"

"What do you mean?"

"No-one's ever said anything about any man before, not in all the stories I've heard folk tell. No-one really knows what went on, except you. I just thought, maybe I can help, share your pain...if you talk to me."

He placed the empty bowl to the floor, feeling oddly guilty for the answer he was about to give;

"I...I don't think I'm ready to relive that. Not yet. I think it might break me." He hung his head in shame at the confession.

"I think I get it, but Link, whenever you're ready...I'll listen." She rested a hand on his shoulder, and smiled at him. She picked up the bowl from the floor. "I guess even bland stuff's good if you've not eaten for a few days. I'll get you some more. We'll want you good and strong for what's to come." She stood, and began to walk away.

"Thank you, really." He looked up as she turned to glance over her shoulder as she walked back towards the church.

As she rounded the corner, he turned his attention back to the blade in front of him, repeatedly drawing his whetstone down the edges, again, and again.

Swish, swish.

He was feeling surprisingly more settled, now.

Swish, swish

The couple working in his house seemed to have found the pot he stored his spare rupees in, and had begun scrubbing them clean to reveal their value in a tub of water.

And still his whetstone danced along his blade.

Shush, shush.

The change in response made him look down. The edge was finally returning. He raised the blade in front of his face, noting his reflection; The scarred face, echoing in the strange discoloured metal. He smiled as he slid the sword back into its sheathe, and allowed himself to rest.

[Apologies with the slower and shorter update, very busy with work this week, and have gone past all my original notes which sped up the earlier process. Would love to have more reviews telling me if there's things you particularly enjoy or would like me to work on improving. Also, would you prefer shorter, separated sections as in the prologue, or whole chunks as in chapters 1-3? Thanks for reading. S-T.]


	9. Chapter 4- part 2

Chapter 4- Part 2

"Link. Link my boy, wake up. Think we've found something."

He opened his eyes and mumbled groggily, though, truth be told, he was feeling slightly more rested.

The man, who had been searching the ashes of what was once Link's house, knelt before him. His hand was outstretched, as if he had been about to gently nudge him awake.

He was covered in ash and soot, grime matted to his hands and arms by a thin sheen of perspiration.

"Didn't want to wake you, figured you earned some rest, but...we don't know what to do about it. You gotta come take a look before we do anymore." He didn't look overly worried, but beyond that, Link was struggling to place his emotion.

"Anything to be alarmed about?" He replied to the man, pushing himself up off the floor.

"No no, just strange. Didn't know if you knew any about it." Link kept a grip of his sword regardless. He had no intention of being caught off guard again any time soon.

He brushed off dust and soot from his clothes before hesitantly walking over to the ruined husk of his former home.

Very little remained. The door frame, miraculously, still stood, though the door was nowhere to be seen. He rested his hand on the frame as he stepped forwards, charred fragments splintering off under his grip. The foundations of the structure stood around the front half of the house, though mostly were little more than a few inches above the ground level. The edges of those even were charred, and crumbling. The very air still held the scent of smoke and ash.

Link stepped over the remnants of the front wall, nearly stumbling as his foot landed further down on the other side than he had anticipated. The man grabbed at his wrist with a steadying hand, though Link had already caught himself.

The very floorboards themselves had been burnt away through most of the room, only the stone slabs around what was once the fireplace remained at the original level. These seemed remarkably clear of scorch marks or ash, Link thought, until he noticed the bucket of dirty water and brush nearby. It seemed the woman had swept away much of the detritus and remnants, then scrubbed at the stones for some reason. A water spill on one of the flagstones caught his eye as he stepped fully over the wall.

He raised a questioning eyebrow at the pair, before walking forwards.

"So, what am I looking at?" he asked them both.

"Well, we were sweeping out this area, trying to find what might be left, when I stumbled over something near the fire. Don't rightly know what got me, but I fell and hit the bucket, and then...well. Quicker to show you. Deena?" He gestured over to his wife, who stepped forwards, holding the bucket.

She walked towards the flags of the fireplace, and gently poured out some water.

It ran across the surface, and into the cracks between the slabs of stone as the stream reached the edges. Link waited, unsure of what they were getting at, when he heard it.

"Hang on, is that...?" He knelt down, turning his head to the side, straining to clearly make out the noise he thought he had heard.

"S'what we were thinking too." The man replied. "Don't happen to have a cellar do you?"

"No. No I don't. At least, not that I knew of." Link put his ear close to the floor. The sound of water falling and striking a surface was unmistakable. It almost seemed to echo as well, the sound resonating beneath them.

"So there's a hollow space somehow here...I wonder what it is. Is there a way down?"

"Well that's the second thing there, lad. After Deena realised the water was going someplace, we went to look at what made me trip. Think it was under the floor before, but it's plain as day now." The man motioned Link over to largest stone slab in front of the fireplace, and gestured downwards.

Link moved over cautiously, unsure of how to react to these unexpected developments in his own home. Crouching down, he inspected the area more closely. Below the previous floor level, something remarkable could be seen. Beneath the slab was a small hollow, from which protruded a metal bar of some kind. It appeared to be a handle, connected to a rod which ran further beneath the slab, and out of sight. The rod appeared to run towards the fireplace itself, but he couldn't be certain if it reached that far.

He reached out tentatively with one hand, gripped the bar, and pulled. The bar remained stubbornly in place, unmoved by Link's action.

"Soon as I realised it wasn't going to come right out, decided to ask you about it. Didn't want to go poking around where it wasn't our business without your go-ahead."

Link nodded to absently, and held out his sword to the side, hoping the man would take it from him. When he did, Link squatted down in front of the bar, grabbing it at both ends. Bracing his feet either side of the stone slab, he leaned back, expecting his weight to do the work for him.

The bar seemed to shift a tiny amount, before stopping almost imperceptibly further out from the alcove.

Frowning, with a combination of frustration and determination, Link began to pull at the bar. Straining, he began to push down, straightening his legs as he did. With a final grunt of exertion, the rod slid out before coming to an abrupt stop. A loud metallic clunk was heard, as if a heavy frame had struck a surface with a moderate amount of force.

Link, now lay on his back on the ground, exhaled in satisfaction. The woman, Deena, appeared to be staring at the former fireplace, from where the sound appeared to have originated.

Link waited just a moment, before accepting the man's offered hand, and pulled himself to his feet. He gratefully took back his sword, and stepped over to see what had been revealed.

A large hole, wide enough for a man to fit down, was now visible in the middle of the fireplace. The slab that had been the centre of the hearth appeared to have folded down, resting on some sort of hinged metal platform. The handle he had pulled on seemed to have been a support on which the mechanism rested, holding it in place. He was wondering why on earth such a thing would be here, and so cunningly hidden, when he noticed sets of metal rungs leading down the stone sides of the hole, forming a crude ladder of sorts.

"Why," he queried out loud, "would there be a underground passage here, and why would it be hidden so thoroughly?"

"Can't offer you any answers there Link, I'm afraid." Deena answered him. "But I take it you'll be going down to find out?" He nodded, trying to provide any answers of his own. "Rick, do we have a lantern, or a torch at least so he can see?" The mid-afternoon sun provided plenty of illumination for the work they had been doing, but shadows cast meant he could only see a meter or so down the hole; even the bottom was obscured. He heard the man walk off, and picked up a nearby stone, dropping it down. The echoing sound of impact rang back up scarcely a second later.

Not too deep then. He could probably jump down, if there was enough room to crouch when he landed. Better not to risk it though.

He could still hear infrequent drops of water striking what must have been the base of the tunnel. It was impressive that either of them had noticed the sound, and sheer blind luck that they had stumbled across the secret in the first place, Link mused.

The man returned, holding an antique looking lantern in his hand, he fumbled for a brief moment with a flint, before the wick struck, and the lantern flared up into light. He held it out to Link, who lifted it over the hole.

The bottom was visible now, probably only three or four meters down.

He threw his sword belt over his shoulder, rested the lamp at the side of the opening, and carefully began to descend.

The metal rungs appeared to have slightly rusted, which provided decent grip, though one or two sections flaked off beneath his boots as he rested his feet on lower rungs.

His head reached the level of the opening, and he grabbed the lantern, using the hook on the handle to rest it on a lower rung, and continued his descent to the bottom.

He looked up to see the two anxious faces looking down upon him.

"I'm fine. Going to see where this goes. If you hear anything worrying, or don't hear in half an hour, get help."

"Alright my boy. Careful. You've been through too much to get yourself killed of a fall in some cave." The man replied, before turning in response to a noise Link heard echo distantly from up above.

"I agree." Link muttered under his voice as he turned. The lantern dimly lit the passage in front of him. The floor and roof were stone, which seemed to have been placed there, but the sides were just compact dirt, quite rich in clay, of the same type which was present in the local surrounds. He shuffled forwards, noting the gentle downwards slope as he proceeded. He thought he heard his name shouted from above, but ignored it. Now was a time of action. It felt so good to be moving.

The stone above gave way to the same dirt as the walls, quickly transitioning to roughly carved rock, and he descended past and into the bedrock. The flickering lantern cast strange shadows around, making him feel somewhat nervous.

His boot caught a stone, and he instinctively ducked into a more defensive posture as the noise startled him. The sound echoed and reverberated strangely in the tunnel, as if there was something else moving around with him.

He tried to draw his sword, but the hilt hit the ceiling before it was fully out of the sheathe. He ducked and twisted, until the blade was comfortably in his left hand. If there was anything dangerous, he didn't want to be caught unarmed. The tunnel was becoming more cramped, now only a foot above his head, and too narrow for two people to fit down at once, not matter how close they stood.

He froze as he heard a scuffing sound ring out from up ahead. Something scraped gently across a surface near him. From an almost invisible alcove ahead, an enormous spider burst forth. The creature nearly filled the bottom quarter of the tunnel, coming up to his knees. The flickering of the lamp-light reflected eerily in its multiple eyes, showing malice, sinister intent, and bestial intellect.

Link stepped back immediately, swinging his sword in an overhead strike, only for it to become stuck in the ceiling as it dug into a pocket of clay.

He yanked it free in the same instant as jumping back, his wrist protesting at the sudden jolt, avoiding a thrusting strike from an alarmingly sharp looking foreleg by a hair's breadth.

He lashed out with an ineffective strike, which bounced harmlessly off the tough, black chitinous armour which seemed to cover much of the front half of the monster. It did retract it's leg however, hunkering down and pulling all its legs in close for protection. Clearly it was wary of being struck more strongly.

The lamp's flame dimmed and flickered fitfully as the remaining oil sloshed around in the reservoir, distracting him as he glanced up. As the light reached its lowest, the spider struck, seeming to leap towards him, its legs extending to launch it forwards.

Link dove backwards to try and escape the attack, but the beast's reach far exceeded his expectations. He saw the two front most legs raise up at the apex of the spider's leap, before slamming down towards his prone body, the sharpened tips seeming to glint with a deadly sharpness.

Unable to react with an attack of his own in time, he tensed his left arm, and braced the flat of his blade with his right wrist, holding his sword out in an awkward block, which stopped the strike mere inches from piercing his body and shoulder. He had no time to waste, however, as the beast scuttled forwards whilst locking him in place, its mandibles clicking together as it prepared to bite and inject its venom.

He lashed out with a kick towards its face, and was fortunate to strike it directly in an enlarged eye, causing it to immediately back up, pulling back the limbs which had pinned him down before.

Seeing his chance, he swung his blade, finally creating enough space to strike in a wide arc. His attack finally hit home, shearing off the tip of a leg at its last joint.

A chittering screech was the only sign of the monster's pain from the attack, as it retreated further back down the tunnel, again balling itself up.

The lamp's flame dimmed once again as he scurried to his feet, reflecting off the spider's eyes, but providing little more than a few feet of illumination. Link, banking on the subterranean arachnid's aversion to the light, settled into a low stance, with the lamp held forward. His sword arm he pulled back, the tip of the blade hovering just behind the lantern.

He waited as the spider shifted tentatively, as if deciding how to move with its leg injured so.

Link shook the lamp, causing its light to shift and dim, almost going out, before flickering back into life, slightly brighter.

In the moment the light was lowest, the beast struck, but Link was waiting for it.

His arm snapped out, and as the light returned, he saw his aim was true. The combined forward momentum of his thrust and the spider's leap drove the point of his sword deep into the toughened carapace and into its thorax.

Its legs writhed wildly in panic, forcing Link to step back, leaving his sword impaled in the monster. The movement slowed, then stopped; only the occasional twitches of its legs betraying that it had recently been alive.

He stepped up, and withdrew his sword with a slightly sickening crunch as the toughened hide of the beast gave way. He stepped over and around it, using the lamp to check the alcove in which it had been hidden. He could see a small hole in the wall, though which it must have entered before it had matured. Satisfied that there were no other hidden beasts, and no possibility of another one entering through the opening, he sheathed his sword and continued, until the tunnel ended abruptly. In front of him, was a large shape, covered in a stained, tattered looking cloth.

He pulled it aside to reveal a rather solid looking chest. The wood looked dark, and he could see fine metalwork around each edge holding the planks together. Sheathing his blade, he reached out to the clasp in the middle of the chest, holding the lid to the main body.

He found it surprising that there was no bolt in place, and flicked it open. Setting the lamp on the floor, he tentatively opened the lid. Inside was what appeared to be a large object, contained with in a sturdy burlap sack, tied with rope.

The lamp, growing dimmer by the minute, barely provided enough lamp to make out any further detail.

He reached in, grabbing the sack one-handed. It was heavier than he anticipated, weighing several pounds at least. He threw it over his shoulder, grabbed the lamp for what little light it provided and hastened back up the tunnel to the make-shift ladder.

* * *

They were relieved when Link returned to the surface. It seemed he had been down there longer than he realised, and feared the worst when they faintly heard the signs of his struggle below. Reassuring them he had not been harmed in any way, and had come out completely unscathed, he gratefully received a water skin from Anya, who apparently had returned just as he was descending. He drank from it greedily, not realising how thirsty he had been before, and even accepted some bread and cheese from her. It was only after he had finished eating that Anya asked what it was that he had found, and he remembered he was indeed still carrying the sack. After years of carrying a bow and quiver of arrows around, the extra weight on his shoulder wasn't as stark a difference as it might otherwise have been. It had felt almost comforting to him.

They stepped outside together to make the most of the light, and placed the bag down. It was larger than he had realised as well, only a little less than the width of his shoulders across, and would have covered most of his back.

He pulled open the ties at the top of the sack, tugged open the hole, and revealed the contents.

He saw metal edges, banded around tough wooden boarding. Fully removing the object from the bag revealed the back side of what appeared to be a masterfully crafted shield.

He slipped his right arm through the strap, and held the grip in his hand. He stood, still holding the shield, and allowed his arm to drop to his side. The guard had a weight to it, but it was by no means uncomfortable. It felts so _right_ to be holding it. He shifted his arm around, getting used to the extra weight quickly, and settled into a defensive posture.

Anya gasped as she saw the face of the shield fully for the first time.

"Link, have you seen? It...it's beautiful." She was staring so intently, that he could not help but remove the guard and turn it so that he could inspect its face.

Exquisite amounts of care had gone into the creation of the object, without a doubt.

The edging was a thick, hardened steel, riveted into place over the main body, which appeared to be a slightly thinner sheet of metal. Embossed onto the surface were several bold lines at the top and bottom of the shield, accentuating its shape and style. Two thirds of the way up the shield, at the central line, appeared to be a metal socket into which a triangular formation had been set. He could also very faintly make out some engraved lines on the lower half of the face, which seemed to form a pattern on the surface. He thought he could make out wings. Perhaps some sort of bird?

The metal around the edge of the shield was polished, and bright, but the rest of the material appeared more muted, as if the colours had drained away, or become drab, like something left out exposed to long to the sun.

"This is...incredible. I've never seen anything like it." He spoke aloud, unable to keep the thoughts to himself.

"I guess it's yours now. It suits you, I think. Though..." she hesitated, trailing off at the end.

"I know. I wish I could have seen how it looked when it was put down there, too. It must have truly been a sight. I'll take it, though. I'll need every edge that I can get when I catch them."

"So you are leaving then. I'd hoped you would stay for longer..."

"I've got a lot of ground to cover, I don't know how well I'll even be able to track them now, let alone if I wait a few more days."

"Maybe I can help. I know everyone would want to see you off, and I'm sure we could pack some supplies for you. It'll only be a couple hours, and it'll definitely be worth it."

He stared into the shield for a moment before nodding.

"Only what people can spare though. I can forage for food if needs be, and I won't have anyone going hungry, especially not the children."

She frowned as he spoke, her mouth opening as if she were about to say something, before closing it and simply nodding.

He watched as she hastened away to begin preparations for him, before staring at the shield again, wondering how it had come to be beneath his home. As he caught sight of his scarred face, his look of wonder faded, and settled into grim resolve.

* * *

Sister Laverna was tending to one of the grievously injured in the Church when the silly, love-sick young girl, Anya, returned.

She shook her head and dissented when the girl asked for supplies to be given to Link on his foolish quest for revenge, but she was overruled.

She spoke out sternly when the girl said Link would be taking her horse, almost raising her voice when the child calmly stated that Laverna had no say in the matter.

She barely restrained herself from staring when she saw the shield Link bore across his back. She recognised the design, and hearing that he'd retrieved it from a hidden room under his house confirmed several suspicions she'd held for quite some time.

She frowned in displeasure at Anya's announcement that Link would be hunting down their enemies and bringing them to justice. The cheering of the gathered townsfolk left a bitter taste in her mouth, as they forgot the teachings she had spread the past 20 years.

She shook her head sadly as Anya let her emotions get the better of her, catching sight of the foolish child fiercely pressing her lips to Link's in a decidedly inappropriate kiss.

Finally, the old priestess, who had lived too long, and seen far too much death, allowed herself to weep.

For, as Link rode off in pursuit of vengeance, Laverna realised she was watching departure of a young man who could have saved them all. It was the very innocents whom had cheered for him that he had abandoned. With it, she feared, he had turned his back on becoming The Hero.

* * *

[This took far longer than anticipated, apologies for those who were eagerly awaiting this updated. Link is finally on his adventure, with a familiar shield taken from a hidden basement. I tried to make the mechanism as low-tech and sensible as possible for the fantasy, but still actually functional. Laverna has some strong opinions, but she's lived through an awful lot, which may or may not be relevant later. Next chapter may be shorter, and will feature Shiekah advisors and Royalty. Please review if you're enjoying this even a little, or are intrigued by anything so far. It helps me stay motivated, and know that I'm not the only one getting something out of the exercise. S-T]


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